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:-:\ r i i 



REMAINS 



OF THE LATE 



REV. CHARLES WOLFE, A.B 



CURATE OF DONOUGHMORE, DIOCESS OF ARMAGH. 



WITH A ERIEF 



MEMOIR OF HIS LIFE. 



BY THE 

REV. JOHN A. RUSSELL, M. A 

* — ■ x 

ARCHDEACON OF CLOGHER. 



SIXTH EDITION. 



LONDON: 

PRINTED FOR HAMILTON, ADAMS, AND CO. 

33, PATERNOSTER ROW. 

M.DCCC.XXXVI. 



,W 74- 



PREFACE. 



It was long a matter of painful doubt to the Editor 
whether he should be justifiable in committing to the 
press the collection of Remains contained in this 
volume; convinced as he was that none of them 
were ever designed for that purpose by the Author 
himself, who, indeed, would have shrunk from the 
idea of publication. However, his hesitation has been 
overborne by the strong hope that they may prove 
generally instructive as well as interesting, and afford 
a peculiar gratification to a wide circle of friends. 

It was at first intended to publish the Sermons 
only ; but, on a more mature consideration, it seemed 
advisable to give a short account of the Author, inter- 
spersed with his poems and other remains, particularly 
as many of them have been for a considerable time 

b 



VI PREFACE. 

in private circulation amongst a few acquaintances, 
and would, most probably, have found their way to 
the press in some other shape. In fact, their pub- 
lication appeared inevitable; and it therefore seemed 
better that they should go forth to the public through 
the hands of a friend, who was in possession of all 
the original manuscripts, and who had also the hap- 
piness of an uninterrupted intimacy and communi- 
cation with the Author, from the time he entered 
college until his lamented death. 

The state in which the papers were committed to 
him rendered it a task of greater labour to select, 
arrange, and transcribe them for the press, than can 
easily be imagined. This circumstance, and the late 
arrival of some promised communications, caused a 
greater delay in the publication than the writer could 
have anticipated. 

The miscellaneous nature of the work may possibly 
render it more generally useful than one exclusively 
upon religious subjects. Many, who admire the rap- 
tures of the poet, may be induced to regard with re- 
verence the instructions of the divine : they may feel 
a peculiar desire to mark what thoughts a heart, 
animated by the Muse, can bring forth when hallowed 
by a loftier and purer inspiration. 



PREFACE. Vll 

The Editor is painfully conscious how imperfect is 
the sketch which he has here given of the Author's 
life and character ; and must throw himself upon the 
indulgence of the friends who are most deeply inter- 
ested in the work, with an humble hope that they 
will make candid allowance for any error of judgment, 
or defect in execution^ which they may observe in the 
performance of the pleasing but anxious task he has 
had to fulfil. 



CONTENTS. 





PAGE 


Memoir ...... 


1 


" Jugurtha incarceratus, vitam ingemit relictam" 


7 


Battle of Busaco ; Deliverance of Portugal . 


15 


Burial of Sir John Moore 


23 


Spanish Song ..... 


29 


The Grave of Dermid . . . • 


30 


Song ...... 


33 


Song ...... 


34 


The Frailty of Beauty 


35 


The College Course .... 


38 


Patriotism ...... 


50 


Fragments of a Speech delivered in the Chair, in the 




Historical Society . . . . 


55 


Farewell to Lough Bray .... 


76 


Song ...... 


78 


TheDargle ...... 


ib. 


Birth -day Poem ..... 


84 


Song ...... 


87 


To a Friend ..... 


88 


Speech before a Meeting of the Irish Tract Society, 




Edinburgh, May 1821 . 


133 



X CONTENTS. . 

SERMONS. 

SERMON I. 

ECCLESIASTES, xii. 1. 

PAGE 

Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth 175 

SERMON II. 

Hebrews, xi. 1. 

Faith is the substance of things hoped for ; the evidence 
of things not seen . . . . 188 

SERMON III. 

Genesis, i. 26. 

And God said. Let us make man in our image, after our 
likeness . . . . . .201 

SERMON IV. 

Matthew, xiii. 44. 

The kingdom of Heaven is like unto treasure hid in a 
field ; the which when a man hath found, he hideih, 
and for joy thereof goeth, and selleih all that he hath, 
and buyeth that field . . . .215 

SERMON V. 

Matthew, xi. 28. 

Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, 
and I will give you rest .... 225 

SERMON VI. 

Matthew, ix. 12. 

They that be whole need not a physician, but they that 
are sick ..... 239 



CONTENTS. XI 

SERMON VII. 
1 Corinthians, vi. 20. 

PAGE 

Ye are bought with a price . . ... 252 

SERMON VIII. 

Colossians, iii. 2. 

Set your affections on things above, not on things on the 
earth ...... 264 

SERMON IX. 

Luke, ix. 23. 

And he said to them all, If any man will come after 
me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily 
and follow me . . . . 273 

SERMON X. 

Matthew, xi. 30. 
My yoke is easy, and my burden is light . . 284 

SERMON XI. 
Romans, v. 12. 

By one man sin entered into the world . . 295 

SERMON XII. 

1 Corinthians, xiii. 12, 13. 

Now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to 

face ; now I know in part ; but then shall I know even 

as also I am known. And now abideth Faith, Hope, 

Charity, these three ; but the greatest of these is 

Charity ...... 308 



Xll CONTENTS. 

SERMON XIII. 
Ecclesiastes, viii. 11. 

PAGE 

Because sentence against an evil work is not executed 
speedily, therefore the heart of the sons of men is fully 
set in them to do evil . . . .318 

SERMON XIV. 

1 John, iv. 10. 

Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us, 
and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins . 330 

SERMON XV. 

1 Corinthians, x. 13. 

There hath no temptation taken you but such as is com- 
mon to man : but God is faithful, who will not suffer 
you to be tempted above that ye are able ,* but will with 
the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may 
be able to bear it . . . . 340 



APPENDIX. 

Observations on Religious Poetry .... 349 

Jesus raising Lazarus 352 

On the Death of Abel (prize poem) .... 353 

Graecia capta ferum Victorem cepit .... 358 

Principiis Obsta 359 

Ira furor brevis est . . . . . . . ib. 

Miscellaneous Thoughts 360 



REMAINS 



OF 



THE REV. CHARLES WOLFE. 



In attempting to sketch even a brief Memoir of 
a friend, whose existence had been for many years 
blended with our own, there are difficulties which 
may be more easily conceived than described. 

It is hard to restrain the pen from the expression 
of feelings which to others would be tedious and un- 
interesting. It is hard also to speak fully and freely 
of the immediate subject of the narrative without an 
apparent self-obtrusion. This, however, shall be care- 
fully avoided in the present little work ; the object of 
which is, simply, to collect the Remains, and record 
a few particulars of the life and character, of one little 
known to the world ; but who, throughout the circle 
in which he moved, excited an interest which cannot 
easily be forgotten, and diffused blessings with which 
his name and his memory will long be held in grateful 
association. 



2 REMAINS OF 

Amidst the pensive recollections awakened by an 
attempt to record the life of a departed friend, there 
may be much to afford comfort and instruction to 
one's self, which it would be difficult, perhaps im- 
possible, to convey to an uninterested reader. It can 
easily be conceived in general, with what a tender 
and prevailing influence the instructions received at 
former periods of life come home to the heart, when 
they are associated with the recollection of the amiable 
qualities, the exalted principles, and the early death 
of a cherished friend, from whom they have been im-, 
bibed. ec Amidst the sadness of such a remembrance 
" (says an eloquent writer *), it will be a consolation 
" that they are not entirely lost to us. Wise mo- 
" nitions, when they return on us with this melan- 
" choly charm, have more pathetic cogency than when 
" they were first uttered by the voice of a living 
" friend." " It will be an interesting occupation to 
" recount the advantages which we have received 
u from beings who have left the world, and to rein- 
£C force our virtues from the dust of those who first 
" taught them." 

Such have been the feelings of the writer, and such 
will probably be the feelings of other friends upon the 
recollections which this little memoir may awaken. 
But upon these sentiments it is unnecessary, as it 
would perhaps be obtrusive, to dilate. I shall therefore 
pass on to the immediate subject of the memoir. 

To those who have personally known him whose 

* Foster's Essays, p. 16. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 3 

Remains are presented in this volume to the public, 
it may be satisfactory to learn some particulars of 
his life. 

Charles Wolfe was the youngest son of Theobald 
Wolfe, Esq. of Blackhall, county Kildare. His mo- 
ther was the daughter of the Rev. Peter Lombard. 
He was born in Dublin, 14th December, in the year 
1791. The family from which he was descended 
has not been undistinguished. Through the military 
achievements of the illustrious hero of Quebec, the 
name stands conspicuous upon the records of British 
renown. It has also been signalised at the Irish bar, 
especially in the person of the much-lamented Lord 
Kilwarden, one of the same family, who was elevated 
to the dignity of the judicial bench. At an early age 
the subject of this memoir lost his father ; not long 
after whose death the family removed to England, 
where they resided for some years. Charles was sent 
to a school in Bath in the year 1801 ; from which, in 
a few months, he was obliged to return home in con- 
sequence of the delicacy of his health, which inter- 
rupted his education for twelve months. Upon his 
recovery, he was placed under the tuition of Dr. Evans, 
in Salisbury, from which he was removed in the year 
1805 ; and soon after was sent as a boarder to Win- 
chester school, of which Mr. Richards, sen. was then 
the able master. There he soon distinguished himself 
by his great proficiency in classical knowledge and by 
his early powers in Latin and Greek versification, and 
displayed the dawnings of a genius which promised to 



4 REMAINS OF 

set him amidst that bright constellation of British 
poets which adorns the literature of the present age. 

The many high testimonies to his amiable dispo- 
sition and superior talents, which are supplied by the 
affectionate letters of his schoolmasters, show that he 
was not overvalued by his own family, with every 
member of which he seems to have been the special 
favourite. I cannot better describe the manner in 
which his character as a boy was appreciated at school 
and at home, and how deservedly it was so prized, 
than in the following simple language of a very near 
relative, to whom I am indebted for some of the par- 
ticulars of his life already mentioned. ec The letters 
" I enclose you bear testimony to the amiable cha- 
" racter of my dear, dear Charles, such as I ever 
u remember it. Those from Mr. Richards I can better 
" estimate than any one else, from knowing that he 
" was not easily pleased in a pupil, or apt to flatter. 
" He was greatly attracted by superior talents ; but 
" you will see that he speaks of qualities of more 
" value. He never received even a slight punishment 
' ■ or reprimand at any school to which he ever went ; 
" and in nearly twelve years that he was under my 
" mother's care I cannot recollect that he ever acted 
" contrary to her wishes, or caused her a moment's 
" pain, except parting with her when he went to 
" school. I do not know whether he ever told you 
" that he had, when a boy, a wish to enter the army, 
" which was acquired by being in the way of military 
:e scenes ; but, when he found it would give his mother 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 

" pain, he totally gave up the idea, which I am sure, 
c< all his life, he thanked God that he had done. In 
" 1808 he left Winchester, (where he had been three 
<( years,) owing to our coming to Ireland, as my mo- 
u ther could not think of leaving him behind. His 
" company was her first earthly comfort, and she 
" could not relinquish it ; indeed, we used to count 
" the hours when the time drew near that he was 
" expected. We were often told that we should spoil 
u him, but you know whether it was so. When we 
" arrived in Ireland, it was intended that he should 
f c go to some other school ; but he did not go to any, 
" nor had he any one to read with him, so that he 
" entered college with much less previous instruction 
" than most others. I believe you knew him soon 
" after; and I need not tell you of him since, or what 
" he has been, even if I could. I have never heard 
" of a schoolfellow or a college acquaintance who did 
" not respect or love him ; but I will not say more to 
"you." 

The pleasing testimony to his character and abilities 
contained in this extract is indeed fully borne out by 
the accounts which some of his schoolfellows have 
given of him to the writer. They spoke of him with 
the strongest affection, and represented him as the 
pride of Winchester school. Some of the poems and 
Latin verses by which he distinguished himself there, 
shall appear at the close of this volume. 

In the year 1809 he entered the University of 
Dublin, under the tuition of the late Rev. Dr. Daven- 



REMAINS OF 



port,, who immediately conceived the highest interest 
for him, and continued to show it by special proofs of 
his favour. In a few months after his entrance, the 
writer had the happiness of becoming acquainted with 
him. This casual acquaintance soon became a cordial 
intimacy, which quickly ripened into a friendship 
that continued not only uninterrupted, but was ce- 
mented more and more by constant intercourse and 
by community of pursuits : it was, above all, im- 
proved and sweetened by an unreserved interchange of 
thoughts on those subjects which affect our eternal 
interests, and open to us the prospects of friendships 
which death can only suspend, but not destroy. 

Our author immediately distinguished himself by 
his high classical attainments, for which he was early 
rewarded by many academical honours. The first 
English poem which attracted general notice was 
written very early in his college course, upon a subject 
proposed by the heads of the university. It evinces 
a boldness of thought, a vigour of expression, and 
somewhat of a dramatic spirit, which seems to entitle 
it to a place in this little collection; and it shall 
therefore be presented first in order to the reader. The 
prison-scene of Jugurtha (which is the subject of the 
poem) gave the author full scope for a masterly ex- 
hibition of the darkest and deadliest passions of human 
nature in fierce conflict. Disappointed ambition, re- 
venge, despair, remorse, were to be represented as 
raging by turns in the captive's mind, or dashing, 
as it were, against each other, and struggling for 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 



utterance. The subject was proposed in the following 
form — 



u 



JUGURTHA INCARCERATUS, VITAM INGEMIT 
RELICTAM." 

Well — is the rack prepared — the pincers heated 1 

Where is the scourge ? How ! — not employ 'd in Rome ? 

We have them in Numidia. Not in Rome ? 

I 'm sorry for it ; I could enjoy it now ; 

I might have felt them yesterday ; but now, — 

Now I have seen my funeral procession : 

The chariot-wheels of Marius have roll'd o'er me : 

His horses' hoofs have trampled me in triumph, — 

I have attain'd that terrible consummation 

My soul could stand aloof, and from on high 

Look down upon the ruins of my body, 

Smiling in apathy : I feel no longer ; 

I challenge Rome to give another pang. — 

Gods ! how he smiled, when he beheld me pause 

Before his car, and scowl upon the mob ; 

The curse of Rome was burning on my lips, 

And I had gnaw'd my chain, and hurl'd it at them, 

But that I knew he would have smiled again. — 

A king ! and led before the gaudy Marius, 

Before those shouting masters of the world^ 

As if I had been conquer'd ; while each street, 

Each peopled wall, and each insulting window, 

Peal'd forth their brawling triumphs o'er my head. 

Oh S for a lion from thy woods, Numidia ! — 

Or had I, in that moment of disgrace, 

Enjoy'd the freedom but of yonder slave, 

I would have made my monument in Rome. 

Yet am I not that fool, that Roman fool, 

To think disgrace entombs the hero's soul, — 

For ever damps his fires and dims his glories ; 



8 REMAINS OF 

That no bright laurel can adorn the brow 

That once has bow'd ; no victory's trumpet-sound 

Can drown in joy the rattling of his chains : 

No ; — could one glimpse of victory and vengeance 

Dart preciously across me, I could kiss 

Thy footstep's dust again ; then all in flame, 

With Massinissa's energies unquench'd, 

Start from beneath thy chariot-wheels, and grasp 

The gory laurel reeking in my view, 

And force a passage through disgrace to glory — 

Victory ! Vengeance ! Glory ! — Oh, these chains ! 

My soul 's in fetters, too ; for, from this moment, 

Through all eternity I see but — death ; 

To me there 's nothing future now, but death : 

Then come and let me gloom upon the past. — 

So then — Numidia 's lost ; those daring projects — 

(Projects that ne'er were breathed to mortal man, 

That would have startled Marius on his car,) 

O'erthrown, defeated ! What avails it now, 

That my proud views despised the narrow limits, 

Which minds that span and measure out ambition 

Had fix'd to mine ; and, while I seem'd intent 

On savage subjects and Numidian forests, 

My soul had pass'd the bounds of Africa ! 

Defeated, overthrown ! yet to the last 

Ambition taught me hope, and still my mind, 

Through danger, flight, and carnage, grasp'd dominion 

And had not Bocchus — curses, curses on him ! — 

What Rome has done, she did it for ambition ; 

What Rome has done, I might— I would have done ; 

What thou hast done, thou wretch ! — Oh had she proved 

Nobly deceitful ! had she seized the traitor, 

And joinM him with the fate of the betray 'd, 

I had forgiven her all ; for he had been 

The consolation of my prison hours ; 

I could forget my woes in stinging him ; 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 9 

And if, before this day, his little soul 

Had not in bondage wept itself away, 

Rome and Jugurtha should have triumph'd o'er him. 

Look here, thou caitiff, if thou canst, and see 

The fragments of Jugurtha ; view him wrapt 

In the last shred he borrowed from Numidia ; 

J Tis cover 'd with the dust of Rome ; behold 

His rooted gaze upon the chains he wears, 

And on the channels they have wrought upon him ; 

Then look around upon his dungeon walls, 

And view yon scanty mat, on which his frame 

He flings, and rushes from his thoughts to sleep. 

Sleep ! 
I *11 sleep no more, until I sleep for ever : 
When I slept last, I heard Adherbal scream. 
I '11 sleep no more ! I '11 think until I die : 
My eyes shall pore upon my miseries, 
Until my miseries shall be no more. — 
Yet wherefore did he scream ? Why, I have heard 
His living scream, — it was not half so frightful. 
Whence comes the difference ? When the man was living, 
Why, I did gaze upon his couch of torments 
With placid vengeance, and each anguish'd cry 
Gave me stern satisfaction. Now he 's dead, 
And his lips move not ; yet his voice's image 
Elash'd such a dreadful darkness o'er my soul, 
I would not mount Numidia's throne again, 
Did every night bring such a scream as that. 
Oh, yes, 'twas I that caused that living one, 
And therefore did its echo seem so frightful. 
If 'twere to do again, I would not kill thee ; 
Wilt thou not be contented ? — But thou say'st, 
u My father was to thee a father also ; 
" He watch'd thy infant years, he gave thee all 
u That youth could ask, and scarcely manhood came 
" Than came a kingdom also : yet didst thou" 



10 REMAINS OF 

Oh, I am faint ! — they have not brought me food— 

How did I not perceive it until now ? 

Hold, — my Numidian cruse is still about me — 

No drop within — Oh faithful friend ! companion 

Of many a weary march and thirsty day, 

'Tis the first time that thou hast fail'd my lips. — 

Gods ! I ? m in tears ! — I did not think of weeping. 

Oh, Marius, wilt thou ever feel like this 1 — 

Ha ! I behold the ruins of a city ; 

And on a craggy fragment sits a form 

That seems in ruins also : how unmoved, 

How stern he looks ! Amazement ! it is Marius ! 

Ha ! Marius, think'st thou now upon Jugurtha ? 

He turns ! he 's caught my eye ! I see no more ! 

The above poem was written in the first year of his 
college course, at which early period he had gained the 
highest distinction amongst his contemporaries for his 
classical attainments. Towards the close of the same 
year, he had to sustain a severe domestic affliction in 
the death of his mother, — an event which wrought 
upon his affectionate heart an impression of the deepest 
regret. 

As soon as he was enabled to resume his studies, 
he entered upon them with diligence. He did not, at 
first, apply with much interest or assiduity to the 
course of science prescribed in our university ; and it 
appears that the circumstance which first led him to 
bestow upon it the attention proportioned to its im- 
portance, was a desire to assist some less gifted ac- 
quaintance in that branch of his academic pursuits. 
This was indeed truly characteristic of his natural 



THE KEV. C. WOLFE. 11 

disposition, which ever led him to apply himself with 
greater zeal in promoting the advantage or interest of 
others than his own. It had, however, a favourable 
effect upon his own studies, as it drew out his talents 
for scientific acquirements, and gave such an impulse 
to his progress, that he soon after won the prize from 
the most distinguished competitors, at an examination 
in which the severer sciences formed the leading sub- 
jects. When his circumstances, some time afterwards, 
rendered it expedient for him to undertake the duties 
of a college tutor, he discharged the task with such 
singular devotedness and disinterested anxiety, as ma- 
terially to entrench upon his own particular studies. 
He was, indeed, so prodigal of his labour and of his 
time to each pupil, that he reserved little leisure for 
his own pursuits or relaxations. _ 

At the usual period he obtained a scholarship, with 
the highest honour, upon which he immediately became 
a resident in college. A new theatre of literary honour 
was opened to him at the commencement of the same 
year, where his genius for competition in prose and 
verse, and his natural powers of oratorical excellence, 
i had more ample sphere for exercise and cultivation. 
| In the Historical Society, of which he was now ad- 
! mitted a member, they were encouraged and expanded 
by the stimulus of generous competition, and by con- 
stant mental collision with the most accomplished and 
enlightened of his fellow-students. He soon obtained 
medals for oratory, and for compositions in prose and 
verse; and was early appointed to the honourable 



12 REMAINS OF 

office of opening the sessions, after the summer recess, 
by a speech from the chair. This was the grand post 
of distinction to which the most successful speakers in 
the society continually aspired. The main object of 
the address was to unfold the advantages resulting 
from the Institution, and to expatiate at large upon 
its three leading departments, — History, Poetry, and 
Oratory. Our author, though he had not fully com- 
pleted his speech, was received with the highest ap- 
plause, and the gold medal was adjudged to him by 
unanimous acclamation. This speech seems never to 
have been written out fairly ; but some fragments of 
it have been preserved, which, with a few other of his 
early productions, shall be presented to the reader in 
the course of this volume. 

Most of his poems were written within a very short 
period, during his abode in college ; but the order in 
which they were composed cannot be exactly ascer- 
tained. It is not the editor's object to enter into any 
minute critique upon the several fugitive little pieces 
which are here collected together; they shall be ac- 
companied principally with such brief notices as may 
appear necessary to throw light upon the occasions 
which gave rise to them, and the circumstances under 
which they were written. 

The next specimen of his poetical talents, which it 
may not be uninteresting to insert here, seems to have 
been but little valued by himself, as he never took the 
trouble of transcribing more than a few lines from the 
first rude sketch. His native modesty, and the fas- 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 13 

tidious judgment which he exercised over all his own 
compositions, led him often to undervalue what even 
his most judicious friends approved and admired. 

The subject of the present poem is one of great 
historical interest. It chiefly refers to the battle of 
Busaco, which first inspired the allied armies with 
mutual confidence, and led the way to those success- 
ful struggles which terminated in the complete deliver- 
ance of Portugal from the usurpation and tyranny of 
France. A brief account of this engagement, extract- 
ed from the Edinburgh Annual Register, (vol. iii. 
p. 462,) may form an appropriate introduction to the 
poem. 

" Busaco, which was now to become famous in 
" British history, had long been a venerable name in 
" Portugal. It is the only place in that kingdom 
" where the barefooted Carmelites possessed what, in 
u their language, is called a desert, an establishment 
c 1 where those brethren whose devotion flies to the 
" highest pitch, may at once enjoy the advantage of 
" the eremite, with the security of the cenobite life ; 
(i one of those places where man has converted an 
" earthly paradise into a purgatory for himself, but 
" where superstition almost seems sanctified by every 
e< thing around it. The solitude and silence of Busaco 
" were now to be broken by events in which its her- 
" mits, dead as they were to the world, might be per- 
" mitted to feel all the agitation of worldly hope and 
" fear. The British and Portuguese army was posted 
" along the ridge, extending nearly eight miles, and 



14 KEMAINS OF 

" forming the segment of a circle, whose extreme 
" points embraced every part of the enemy's position, 
" and from whence every movement of the enemy be- 
" low could be immediately observed. On the 26th 
" Sept. 1810, the light troops on both sides were en- 
" gaged throughout the line. At six on the following 
" morning, the French made two desperate attacks 
" upon Lord Wellington s position ; one on the right, 
" the other on the left of the highest point of the 
" sierra. This spot is remarkable, as commanding one 
" of the most extensive views in Portugal ; and on 
" the very summit stands a cross, planted upon a basis 
' c of masonry of such magnitude, that it is said three 
" thousand carts of stone were used in the work. One 
ce division of French infantry gained the top of the 
" ridge, and was driven back with the bayonet ; an- 
" other division, farther on the right, was repulsed be- 
u fore it could reach the top. On the left they made 
" their attack with three divisions, only one of which 
" made any progress towards the summit, and this 
u was charged with the bayonet, and driven down with 
" immense loss. Some of the Portuguese charging a 
" superior force, got so wedged in among them, that 
" they had not room to use their bayonets ; they 
" turned up the but-ends of their muskets, and plied 
" them with such vigour as completely to clear the 
" way." 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 15 



BATTLE OF BUSACO ; DELIVERANCE OF 
PORTUGAL. 

The breeze sigh'd sadly o'er the midnight flood ; 

On Lisbon's towers Don Henry's spirit stood : 

He wore not helm, he wore not casque ; his hair 

Stream'd like a funeral banner in the air : 

In mournful attitude, with aspect drear, 

He held reversed his country's guardian spear ; 

Dark was his eye and gloomy was his brow, 

He gazed with sternness on the wave below ; 

Then thrice aloft the deathful spear he shook, 

While sorrow's torrent from his bosom broke : — 

Fiends ! may the angel of destruction shed 

This blood-red cup of horrors on your head ! 

Throughout your camp may hell-born demons play, 

Grin ruin to your host, and howl dismay ! 

Was it for this, dear, desolated shore ! 

I taught proud Commerce here her gifts to pour, 

Allured from fairer Italy the maid, 

And here the ground-works of the empire laid ? 

Is there a bolt to mortal guidance given ? — 

Where are the thund'ring delegates of Heaven 1 — 

Through Europe's plains the tyrant's voice is heard, 

And blood-red Anarchy her flag has rear'd, 

Roll'd round her gorgon eyes from native France, 

And petrified the nations with a glance ; 

Affrighted Italy her blasted vines 

Has dropp'd, and Spain let fall her orange lines, 

And tough Teutonic forests, though they broke 

Awhile her force, yet yielded to the stroke. 

Where shall I turn, where find the free, the brave, 

A heart to pity, and an arm to save ? 

To Britain, glorious Britain, will I call, 

Her bulwark, valour, — and the sea, her wall. 



16 REMAINS OF 

Around her crest Gaul's javelins idly play, 

And glance with baffled impotence away ; 

Her hands the reddening bolts of vengeance bear, 

Fate 's on her helm, and death upon her spear ; 

She scorns at Victory's shrine her vows to pay ; 

She grasps the laurel, she commands the day. 

England, what ! ho ! — as thus the spectre spoke, 

All Lisbon's turrets to their bases shook : — 

England, what ! ho ! — again the spectre cried, 

And trembling Tagus heaved with all his tide, — 

England, to arms ! — at this dread call, advance ! 

Assist, defend, protect ! — now tremble, France! — 

He spoke, — then plunged into the river's breast, 

And Tagus wrapt him in his billowy vest. 

O'er seas, o'er shores the solemn summons pass'd, 

It rode upon the pinions of the blast. 

The midnight shades are gone, the glooms are fled, 

See ! the dawn broke as Britain rear'd her head ! 

With Albion's spear upon her shield she smote ; 

Through every island rung the inspiring note. 

Roused at the sound, the English lion rose, 

And burnt to meet hereditary foes ; 

From Highland rocks came every Scottish clan ; 

Forward rush'd Erin's sons, and led the van. 

The Usurper shook, — then sent each chief of name, 

Partners of Victory, sharers of his fame, 

Who bore Gaul's standard through the hostile throng, 

While Lodi trembled as they rush'd along ; 

Who traversed Egypt's plains and Syria's waste, 

And left a red memorial where they pass'd ; 

Who bathed, 'midst French and Austrian heaps of slain. 

Their gory footsteps on Marengo's plain : 

And those who laid the Prussian glories low, 

Yet felt a Brunswick's last expiring blow ; 

Who on Vimeira's heights were taught to feel 

The vengeful fury of a freeman's steel ; 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 17 

Who hung on British Moore in his retreat, 

And purchased dear experience by defeat. 

Such were the chiefs that Gaul's battalia led ; — 

Yet England came, they met her, and they fled. 

At dark Busaco's foot stood France's might, 

The hopes of Britain occupied the height. 

Gaul's mantling terrors to the summit tend, — 

Hold, Britain, charge not, — the attack suspend ; — 

Hush'd be the British whirlwind, — not a breath 

Be heard within thy host, — be still as death ! — 

With gathering gloom comes France's dark array, — 

Rest, Britain, on thy arms, — thy march delay*— 

See ! France has gain'd the summit of the hill ! 

See ! she advances ! Soldier, yet be still — 

She 's at our bayonets, — touches every gun, — 

Now speed thee, England ! and the work is done. — 

Now where is France ? — Yon mountain heap of dead, 

Yon scatter'd band, will tell you how they sped ; 

The dying groan, the penetrating yell, 

May tell how quick she sunk, how soon she fell ; 

Her sons are gone, her choicest blood is spilt, 

Her brightest spear is shiver'd to the hilt. 

Nor ceased they here ; but from the mountain height 

Tempestuous Britain rolls to meet the fight, 

Pours the full tide of battle o'er the plain, 

And whelms beneath the waves its adverse train ; 

The vanquished squadrons dread an added loss ; 

They skulk behind the rampart and the fosse ; — 

Why lingers Wellesley ? Does he fear their force ? 

Dreads he their foot, or trembles at their horse ? 

Alas ! by hands unseen he deals the blow, 

By hands unseen he prostrates ev'ry foe. 

One night — (and France still shudders at that night, 

Pregnant with death, with horror, and affright;) 

One night — on plans of victory intent, 

A spy into the hostile camp he sent ; 

C 



18 REMAINS OF 

It was a wretch, decrepit, shrivel'd, wild, — 

A haggard visage that had never smiled ; 

The miscreant's jaws were never seen to close, 

The miscreant's eyes had never known repose : — 

Swift to the Gallic camp she sped her way, 

And Britain's soldiers, ere the dawn of day, 

Heard through the hostile tents her footstep's tread ; — 

For Famine — raging Famine claim'd her dead ! 

With frantic haste they fled the fatal post, 

Long boldly held — now miserably lost ; 

Dismay, confusion through the rout appear, 

Victorious Britain hangs upon their rear. 

No, sweet Humanity ! I dare not tell 

How infants bled, how mothers, husbands fell : 

I dare not paint the agonizing look 

The mother gave when Gaul her infant took, — 

Took, and while yet the cherub's smile was fresh, 

Pierced its fair limbs and tore its baby- flesh; — 

I dare not paint the wife's transporting woe, 

When sunk her husband by Massena's blow. — 

Hear, thou dread warrior ! hear, thou man of blood ! 

Hear, thou with female, infant, gore imbrued ! 

When, sinking in the horrors of the tomb, 

The avenging angel shall pronounce thy doom — 

When war's loud yell grows faint, the drum's dead roll 

Strikes languid, and more languid on the soul — 

When Britain's cannons may unheeded roar, 

And Wellesley's name has power to fright no more, — 

Yon widow's shrieks shall pierce thee till thou rave, 

And form a dread artillery in the grave ! 

Heard ye that burst of joy ? From Beira's coast 

To Algarve's southern boundaries it crost ; 

It pass'd from undulating Tagus' source, 

And burst where Guadiana holds his course. 

Farewell ! proud France ! (they cried) thy power is broke ; 

Farewell for ever to thy iron yoke ! 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 19 

But blest for ever be old Ocean's queen, 
Still on his bosom may she reign serene. 
When on these plains our future offspring gaze, 
To them our grateful heart shall sound thy praise. 
To Britain's generous aid these plains we owe, 
For us she drew the sword, and bent the bow. 
We sunk, we crouch'd beneath a tyrant's hand — 
Victorious Britain loosed the usurper's band. 
We bow'd to France, obey'd each stern decree, — 
Majestic Britain rose — and all was free. 



It requires no apology for introducing here a poem 
already well known to the public — the Ode on the 
Burial of Sir John Moore. For some years past it 
has excited considerable interest in the literary circles ; 
and it was mentioned by a highly respectable autho- 
rity as having been long a matter of surprise among 
them that its author had not revealed his name, or 
published any other similar production. Subsequently 
to this account, it has obtained a very general popu- 
larity from the splendid eulogium pronounced upon it 
by the late Lord Byron. Little as the author himself 
seemed to value the shadowy prize of poetic reputa- 
tion, or of any mere worldly distinction, it appears but 
an act of literary justice to establish his claim to the 
production of a poem so justly and so honourably 
appreciated, by giving it a place amongst his more 
valuable remains. The noble poet's enthusiastic ad- 
miration of this nameless and unpatronized effusion 
of genius is authenticated in a late work, entitled 



20 BEMAINS OF 

" Medwin's Conversations of Byron/' The impress 
of such a name upon the poetic merits of an ode 
deemed not unworthy of his lordship's own tran- 
scendent powers,, is too valuable not to be recorded 
here. 

The passage alluded to occurs in vol. ii. p. 154, 
(second edit.) of the above-mentioned publication, and 
is as follows : 

" The conversation turned after dinner on the ly- 
" rical poetry of the day ; and a question arose as to 
" which was the most perfect ode that had been pro- 
" duced. Shelley contended for Coleridge's on Switzer- 
" land, beginning — ' Ye Clouds/ &c. ; others named 
" some of Moore's Irish Melodies, and Campbell's 
cc Hohenlinden ; and had Lord Byron not been pre- 
u sent, his own Invocation in Manfred, or the Ode to 
" Napoleon, or on Prometheus, might have been 
" cited. 

" c Like Gray/ said he, c Campbell smells too 
^ much of the oil : he is never satisfied with what he 
" does ; his finest things have been spoiled by over- 
" polish. Like paintings, poems may be too highly 
" finished. The great art is effect, no matter how 
" produced. 

" ' I will show you an ode you have never seen, 
" that I consider little inferior to the best which the 
" present prolific age has brought forth/ With this, 
" he left the table, almost before the cloth was re- 
" moved, and returned with a magazine, from which 
" he read the following lines on Sir John Moore's 
i( burial. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 21 

" The feeling with which he recited these admirable 
" stanzas I shall never forget. After he had come to 
ec an end, he repeated the third, and said it was per- 
"feet, particularly the lines — 

c But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
c With his martial cloak around him.' 

" c I should have taken the whole/ said Shelley, 
" ' for a rough sketch of Campbell's/ 

" c No/ replied Lord Byron ; ' Campbell would 
cc have claimed it, if it had been his.' ' 

The poem found its way to the press without the 
concurrence or knowledge of the author. It was re- 
cited by a friend in presence of a gentleman travelling 
towards the north of Ireland, who was so much struck 
with it, that he requested and obtained a copy ; and 
immediately after, it appeared in the Newry Tele- 
graph, with the initials of the author's name. From 
that it was copied into most of the London prints, and 
thence into the Dublin papers; and subsequently it 
appeared, with some considerable errors, in the Edin- 
burgh Annual Register, which contained the narrative 
that first kindled the poet's feelings on the subject, and 
supplied the materials to his mind. It remained for a 
long time unclaimed ; and other poems,* in the mean 
time, appeared, falsely purporting to be written by the 
same unknown hand, which the author would not take 

* Amongst those was an " Address to Sleep," which ap- 
peared in Blackwood's Magazine. 



22 REMAINS OF 

the pains to disavow. It lately, however, seemed to 
have become the prey of some literary spoliators, 
whose dishonest ambition was immediately detected 
and exposed. Indeed, it is hard to say, whether the 
claims were urged seriously, or whether it was a stra- 
tagem to draw out the acknowledgment of the real 
author. However, the matter has been placed beyond 
dispute, by the proof that it appeared with the initials 
C. W., in an Irish print, long prior to the alleged dates 
which its false claimants assign. 

It is unnecessary to enter into further particulars 
upon this point, as the question has been set at rest ; 
and as Captain Medwin, who at first conjectured the 
poem to have been written by Lord Byron himself, 
has avowed, in his second edition of his work, that 
" his supposition was erroneous, and that it appears 
Ci to be the production of the late Rev. C. Wolfe." It 
may be interesting to prefix the paragraph in the nar- 
rative of Sir John Moore's burial,* which produced so 
strong an emotion in the mind of our author, and 
prompted this immediate and spontaneous effusion of 
poetic genius. 

" Sir John Moore had often said, that if he was 
u killed in battle, he wished to be buried where he 
" fell. The body was removed at midnight to the 
" citadel of Corunna. A grave was dug for him on 
" the rampart there, by a party of the 9th regiment, 
" the aides-de-camp attending by turns. No coffin 
" could be procured, and the officers of his staff 
" wrapped the body, dressed as it was, in a military 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 23 

" cloak and blankets. The interment was hastened ; 
" for, about eight in the morning, some firing was 
" heard, and the officers feared that if a serious attack 
" were made, they should be ordered away, and not 
tc suffered to pay him their last duty. The officers of 
" his family bore him to the grave; the funeral 
<c service was read by the chaplain ; and the corpse 
" was covered with earth." — Edinburgh Annual Re- 
gister, 1808, p. 458. 



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 

i. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

ii. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
The sods with our bayonets turning ; 

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

in. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 

IV. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 



24 REMAINS OF 

V. 
We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, 

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 

And we far away on the billow ! 

VI. 

Lightly they '11 talk of the spirit that 's gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — 

But little he '11 reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

VII. 

But half of our heavy task was done, 
When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

VIII. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone — 
But we left him alone with his glory ! 

The principal errors in most of the copies of this 
poem were pointed out by an early friend of the 
author in an eloquent letter which appeared in the 
Morning Chronicle,, October 29th, 1824. One error, 
however, which occurred in the first line of the third 
stanza, he omitted to correct. The word u confined " 
was substituted for " enclosed," manifestly for the 
worse, as it appears somewhat artificial, and incon- 
sistent with the nervous simplicity of thought and 
expression which marks the whole poem. The third 



THE REV 






line of the fourth stanza has been commonly altered 
thus — - on the face of the dead." I cannot forbear 
quoting the critical and just observations of the friend 
above mentioned, upon this unhappy error. " The 
" expression as it has been printed, is common-place ; 
£i that for which it was ignorantly substituted, is ori- 
£i ginal and affecting. The poet did not merely mean 
r * to tell us the fact, that the comrades of Moore gazed 
ft on the face of their dead chief, — but he meant to 
H convey an idea of the impression which that form of 
i( death made upon them. : They gazed on the face 
"that was dead,' gives not merely the fact, but the 
£i sentiment of death. It is like some of those fine 
u scriptural expressions where the simplest terms are 
" exuberant with imagination. It intimates the awful 
" contrast between the heroic animation which kindled 
" up that countenance just before in action, and its 
" now cold, ghastly, and appalling serenity/'- — Upon 
another error, which has universally prevailed, in the 
seventh stanza, the same eloquent friend has obseiwed, 
" The third and fourth lines have been thus given, 

8 iVnd we heard by the distant and random grin, 
c That the foe was suddenly firing:' 

" but it was originally written, 

4 And we heard the distant and random gun 
' Of the enemy sullenly firing.'* 



* The writer of the above observation seems not to have 
been aware, that the fourth line of this stanza was at first 



26 REMAINS OF 

" I need scarcely point out to any reader of the 
" least poetic taste the superiority of this passage to 
" the fictitious one. The statement of the foe being 
" suddenly firing, implies a new and vigorous attack, 
Ci which was contrary to fact. The lines, as Wolfe 
u wrote them, are better poetry, and more agreeable 
Ci to truth. They represent the enemy, who had 
" come on with the flush of anticipated victory, now 
" sullen in defeat, firing rather from vain irritation 
" than useful valour, keeping up a show of hostilities 
u by c the distant and random gun/ but not venturing 
•< on any fresh and animated onset. In this way, the 
u passage becomes as picturesque as it is concise and 
" energetic/' 

It appears from the interesting conversation in 
which the above poem was assigned so high a place 
in the lyrical compositions of our language, that Camp- 
bell's Hohenlinden was also brought forward by some 
of the company as one of the finest specimens of the 
same order. This powerfully descriptive and sublime 
ode was a peculiar favourite with our author. The 
awful imagery presented in such a rapid succession of 
bold and vivid flashes, — the burning thoughts which 
break forth in such condensed energy of expression, — 

written by the author as I have copied it. It was subsequent- 
ly altered in the way he gives it, at the suggestion of a literary 
friend ; but it seems proper to print it as it actually stands in 
the author's own manuscript, from which I take it. There 
is no difference in sense ; but, perhaps, some may think the 
rhythm better as it was originally written. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 27 

and the incidental touches of deep and genuine pathos 
which characterise the whole poem, never failed in- 
tensely to affect his imagination, and to draw out the 
most rapturous expressions of admiration. It was, 
indeed, the peculiar temperament of his mind to dis- 
play its emotions by the strongest outward demon- 
strations. 

Such were his intellectual sensibilities, and the cor- 
responding vivacity of his animal spirits, that the ex- 
citation of his feelings generally discovered itself by 
the most lively expressions, and sometimes by an un- 
restrained vehemence of gesticulation, which often 
afforded amusement to his more sedate or less im- 
pressible acquaintances. 

Whenever, in the company of his friends, anything 
occurred in his reading, or to his memory, which pow- 
erfully affected his imagination, he usually started 
from his seat, flung aside his chair, and paced about 
the room, giving vent to his admiration in repeated 
exclamations of delight, and in gestures of the most 
animated rapture. Nothing produced these emotions 
more strongly than music, of the pleasures of which 
he was in the highest degree susceptible. He had an 
ear formed to enjoy, in the most exquisite manner, 
the simplest melody, or the richest harmony. With 
but little cultivation, he had acquired sufficient skill 
in the theory of this accomplishment to relish its 
highest charms, and to exercise a discriminative taste 
in the appreciation of any composition or performance 
in that delightful art. Sacred music, above all, (espe- 



28 REMAINS OF 

cially the compositions of Handel,) had the most sub- 
duing, the most transporting effect upon his feelings, 
and seemed to enliven and sublimate his devotion to 
the highest pitch. He understood and felt all the 
poetry of music, and was particularly felicitous in 
catching the spirit and character of a simple air or 
a national melody. One or two specimens of the 
adaptation of his poetical talents to such subjects may 
give some idea of this. 

He was so much struck by the grand national 
Spanish air, " Viva el Rey Fernando," the first time 
he heard it played by a friend, that he immediately 
commenced singing it over and over again, until he 
produced an English song admirably suited to the 
tune. The air, which has the character of an ani- 
mated march, opens in a strain of grandeur, and sud- 
denly subsides, for a few bars, into a slow and pathetic 
modulation, from which it abruptly starts again into 
all the enthusiasm of martial spirit. The words are 
happily adapted to these transitions; but the air 
should be known, in order that the merits of the song 
should be duly esteemed. The first change in the 
expression of the air occurs at the ninth line of the 
song, and continues to the end of the twelfth line. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 



20 



SPANISH SONG. 
Air — Viva el Rey Fernando. 

The chains of Spain are breaking — 
Let Gaul despair, and fly ; 

Her wrathful trumpet 's speaking — 
Let tyrants hear, and die. 

Her standard o'er us arching 

Is burning red and far ; 
The soul of Spain is marching 

In thunders to the war — 
Look round your lovely Spain, 
And say shall Gaul remain ? — 

Behold yon burning valley- 
Behold yon naked plain — 
Let us hear their drum — 
Let them come, let them come ! 
For vengeance and freedom rally, 
And, Spaniards ! onward for Spain ! 

Remember, remember Barossa — 
Remember Napoleon's chain — 

Remember your own Saragossa, 

And strike for the cause of Spain — 

Remember your own Saragossa, 
And onward, onward for Spain ! 



The following little tale may serve to show with 
what feeling and refinement of taste he entered into 
the spirit of our national melodies. It was designed 



30 REMAINS OF 

as a characteristic introduction to the well-known and 
admired song,, — (i The last Eose of Summer." 

" This is the grave of Dermid: — he was the best 
minstrel among us all, — a youth of a romantic genius, 
and of the most tremulous and yet the most impetuous 
feeling. He knew all our old national airs, of every 
character and description : according as his song was 
in a lofty or a mournful strain, the village represented 
a camp or a funeral ; but if Dermid were in his merry 
mood, the lads and lasses were hurried into dance with 
a giddy and irresistible gaiety. One day our chieftain 
committed a cruel and wanton outrage against one of 
our peaceful villagers. Dermid' s harp was in his 
hand when he heard it. With all the thoughtlessness 
and independent sensibility of a poet's indignation, he 
struck the chords that never spoke without response, 
— and the detestation became universal. He was 
driven from amongst us by our enraged chief; and all 
his relations, and the maid he loved, attended our ba- 
nished minstrel into the wide world. For three years 
there were no tidings of Dermid, and the song and 
dance were silent ; when one of our little boys came 
running in and told us that he saw Dermid approach- 
ing at a distance. Instantly the whole village was in 
commotion ; the youths and maidens assembled in the 
green, and agreed to celebrate the arrival of their poet 
with a dance ; they fixed upon the air he was to play 
for them ; it was the merriest of his collection. The 
ring was formed ; — all looked eagerly towards the 









THE REV. C. WOLFE. 31 

quarter from which he was to arrive, determined to 
greet their favourite bard with a cheer. But they 
were checked the instant he appeared ; he came slowly 
and languidly and loiteringly along ; — his countenance 
had a cold, dim, and careless aspect, very different 
from that expressive tearfulness which marked his 
features, even in his more melancholy moments : his 
harp was swinging heavily upon his arm; — it seemed 
a burden to him ; it was much shattered, and some 
of the strings were broken. He looked at us for a few 
moments, — then, relapsing into vacancy, advanced, 
without quickening his pace, to his accustomed stone, 
and sat down in silence. After a pause, we ventured 
to ask him for his friends :— he first looked up sharply 
in our faces, — next, down upon his harp, — then struck 
a few notes of a wild and desponding melody, which 
we had never heard before ; but his hand dropped, and 
he did not finish it. Again we paused — then, know- 
ing well that if we could give the smallest mirthful 
impulse to his feelings, his whole soul would soon fol- 
low, we asked him for the merry air we had chosen. 
We were surprised at the readiness with which he 
seemed to comply; — but it was the same wild and 
heart-breaking strain he had commenced. In fact, 
we found that the soul of the minstrel had become an 
entire void, except one solitary ray, that vibrated 
sluggishly through its very darkest part : it was like 
the sea in a dark calm, which you only know to be in 
motion by the panting which you hear ; he had totally 
forgotten every trace of his former strains, not only 



32 REMAINS OP 

those that were more gay and airy, but even those of 
a more pensive cast ; and he had got in their stead 
that one dreary, single melody ; it was about a lonely 
rose that had outlived all his companions; this he 
continued singing and playing from day to day, until 
he spread an unusual gloom over the whole village ; 
he seemed to perceive it, for he retired to the church- 
yard, and remained singing it there to the day of his 
death. The afflicted constantly repaired to hear it, 
and he died singing it to a maid who had lost her 
lover. The orphans have learnt it, and still chant it 
over poor Dei-mid' s grave/' 

Another of his favourite melodies was the popular 
Irish air, " Gramachree." He never heard it without 
being sensibly affected by its deep and tender ex- 
pression ; but he thought that no words had ever been 
written for it which came up to his idea of the pe- 
culiar pathos which pervades the whole strain. He 
said they all appeared to him to want individuality 
of feeling. At the desire of a friend, he gave his 
own conception of it in these verses, which it seems 
hard to read, perhaps impossible to hear sung, with- 
out tears. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 






SONG. 

Air — Gramachree. 

i. 

If I had thought thou could st have died, 

I might not weep for thee ; 
But I forgot, when by thy side, 

That thou couldst mortal be : 
It never through my mind had past, 

The time would e'er be o'er, 
And I on thee should look my last, 

And thou shouldst smile no more ! 

ii. 

And still upon that face I look, 

And think 'twill smile again ; 
And still the thought I will not brook. 

That I must look in vain ! 
But when I speak — thou dost not say, 

What thou ne'er left's t unsaid ; 
And now I feel, as well I may, 

Sweet Mary ! thou art dead ! 



in. 

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, 

All cold, and all serene — 
I still might press thy silent heart, 

And where thy smiles have been ! 
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, 

Thou seemest still mine own ; 
But there I lay thee in thy grave — 

And I am now alone ! 



34 REMAINS OF 

IV. 

I do not think, where'er thou art, 

Thou hast forgotten me ; 
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, 

In thinking too of thee : 
Yet there was round thee such a dawn 

Of light ne'er seen before, 
As fancy never could have drawn, 

And never can restore ! 

He was asked whether he had any real incident 
in view, or had witnessed any immediate occurrence 
which might have prompted these lines. His reply 
was, " He had not ; but that he had sung the air 
" over and over till he burst into a flood of tears, in 
" which mood he composed the words/' 

The following song was written, at the request of 
a lady of high professional character as a musician, for 
an air of her own composition, which I believe was 
never published : — 

SONG. 

i. 

Go, forget me — why should sorrow 

O'er that brow a shadow fling 1 
Go, forget me — and to-morrow 

Brightly smile and sweetly sing. 
Smile — though I shall not be near thee ; 
Sing — though I shall never hear thee : 

May thy soul with pleasure shine 

Lasting as the gloom of mine ! 
Go, forget me, &c. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 



35 



II. 

Like the Sun, thy presence glowing, 
Clothes the meanest things in light ; 

And when thou, like him, art going, 
Loveliest objects fade in night. 

All things look'd so bright about thee, 

That they nothing seem without thee ; 
By that pure and lucid mind 
Earthly things were too refined. 

Like the Sun, &c. 

in. 

Go, thou vision wildly gleaming, 

Softly on my soul that fell ; 
Go, for me no longer beaming — 

Hope and Beauty ! fare ye well ! 
Go, and all that once delighted 
Take, and leave me all benighted : 

Glory's burning — generous swell, 

Fancy and the Poet's shell. 
Go, thou vision, &c. 



THE FRAILTY OF BEAUTY. 



i. 



I must tune up my harp's broken string, 
For the fair has commanded the strain ; 

But yet such a theme will I sing, 

That I think she '11 not ask me again : 



11. 



For I '11 tell her — Youth's blossom is blown, 
And that Beauty, the flower, must fade ; 

(And sure, if a lady can frown, 

She'll frown at the words I have said.) 



36 REMAINS OF 

III. 

The smiles of the rose-bud how fleet ! 

They come — and as quickly they fly : 
The violet how modest and sweet ! 

Yet the Spring sees it open and die. 

IV. 

How snow-white the lily appears ! 

Yet the life of a lily 's a day ; 
And the snow that it equals, in tears 

To-morrow must vanish away. 

v. 

Ah, Beauty ! of all things on earth 
How many thy charms most desire ! 

Yet Beauty with Youth has its birth, — 
And Beauty with Youth must expire. 

VI. 

Ah, fair ones ! so sad is the tale, 

That my song in my sorrow I steep ; 

And where I intended to rail, 

I must lay down my harp, and must weep. 

VII. 

But Virtue indignantly seized 

The harp as it fell from my hand ; 

Serene was her look, though displeased, 
As she utter'd her awful command. 

VIII. 

" Thy tears and thy pity employ 

" For the thoughtless, the giddy, the vain. 

" But those who my blessings enjoy 
" Thy tears and thy pity disdain. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 37 

IX. 

" For Beauty alone ne'er bestow'd 

" Such a charm as Religion has lent , 
" And the cheek of a belle never glow'd 

" With a smile like the smile of content. 

x. 

" Time's hand, and the pestilence-rage, 

" No hue, no complexion can brave ; 
;c For Beauty must yield to old age, 

" But I will not yield to the grave." 



The history of Mr. Wolfe's college life is too de- 
ficient in incident of general interest to dwell minutely 
upon it. He never took any share in concerns of 
a public nature ; but, on the contrary, endeavoured to 
shun all occasions of notoriety. This portion of his 
life, accordingly, supplies but little other materials for 
his memoir than a short account of his studies, and 
of his few desultory poetical efforts. Before we enter 
upon the more important part of his life, or attempt to 
exhibit his character in its more serious aspect, it may 
be well to collect together, in this part of the volume, 
the principal compositions by which he distinguished 
himself amongst his fellow-students, and gave so fair 
a promise of future celebrity. Two of those which 
obtained medals in the Historical Society shall be 
given here at full length, and such parts of his speech 
on opening the sessions as the editor has been able to 



38 EEMAINS OF 

collect with accuracy from the mutilated fragments of 
the manuscript. 

The prose composition which follows will be princi- 
pally interesting to those who are conversant with the 
usual course of academic studies. It seems unnecessary 
to add any explanatory notes for such readers ; and 
perhaps no helps of this kind, that would not be ab- 
solutely tedious, could materially heighten the interest 
to others. 

Its general design and manner may possibly remind 
some readers of a beautiful paper by Addison, in the 
Tatler, called " The Vision of the Hill of Fame." 
I do not know s that the author was acquainted with 
it ; but even though it may possibly have suggested 
the outline of the plan to his mind, it will be found 
that the imagery and descriptive parts are perfectly 
original. In two or three instances, the same cha- 
racters which are introduced in this vision appear in 
that of Addison ; but it will probably be allowed that 
the peculiar genius and character of each is more dis- 
tinctly and fully brought to light in this little work of 
fancy, and that, on the whole, it need scarcely shrink 
from a comparison with the beautiful paper above 
mentioned. 



THE COLLEGE COURSE. 

At the close of that eventful day — to me the pe- 
riod of a new existence, and the date to which I yet 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 39 

refer many a pleasure and many a pain — on which 
I became the adopted son of the university, I lay for 
a long time pensive and sleepless, pondering on the 
state into which I had entered, and anxious to ascer- 
tain what treatment I was to expect from my second 
mother ; till at length, though not naturally supersti- 
tious, I took my gown, as yet perfect and untorn, 
and folding it up with a sort of sacred awe, (not 
totally devoid of pride at my new dignity,) I placed 
it on the bed, and blessing the omen, reclined my head 
upon this academic pillow. You smile, no doubt, at 
the account — I have often smiled at the recollection of 
it myself — and yet the charm was successful; for 
scarcely had I closed my eyes, before it raised a vision 
which I shall never forget, and upon the remembrance 
of which, whether in the midst of occupation or the 
midst of sorrows, I have often lingered with fondness, 
I fancied myself in front of those awful portals 
from which I had that day, for the first time, emerged. 
They opened spontaneously; and I beheld a monster 
of a most extraordinary appearance seated in the 
entrance. He had three heads; and a poet would 
have called him Cerberus; but I, to whom nature 
never gave a simile, discovered his name to be Syllo- 
gism. Two of the heads grew from the same neck ; 
one larger than the other. The third grew from the 
other two, and always leaned to the weaker side. It 
seemed not to have anything original; but catching 
at the words which fell at one time from the greater 
head, and at the other from the smaller, it formed 



40 REMAINS 01 

a ludicrous combination from both. They all talked 
with a sort of harsh and systematic volubility ; and 
yet I was surprised to find that their whole grammar 
consisted of one verb, one case, and one rule in syn- 
tax. At this moment, an old man advanced, of 
a most venerable and commanding appearance ; and 
Syllogism shrunk at his approach. Instantly I felt as 
if my mind was unfolding itself* and that the reoe 
of my heart, and the springs of my feelings, were 
thrown open to his view. His visage was emaciated 
with cares, but they were not the cares of the world; 
liis cheeks were pale with watching, but they were 
not the vigils of avarice. He turned to me with a look 
of encouragement, and unfolded to my eyes a map the 
most magnificent J had ever beheld — it was a map of 
the intellect. There I saw a thousand rivers, and 
thousands and ten thousands of rills and rivulets 
branching from them ; yet all these he traced to two 
grand sources ; and the mountains whence those sources 
ed, be told me, reached to heaven: and for that 
very reason, clouds and impenetrable darkness enve- 
loped them. He then pursued them through all their 
windings, — pausing, at times, to show the delightful 
verdure of their banks — the mild and equable flow — 
and often pointing to the dre'dry desert occasioned by 
their absence, and the frightful precipice by their tor- 
rents. At length he traced them to the one grand 
ocean — the ocean of knowledge. On this were innu- 
merable straits and quicksands : and he showed me 
the waters of probability, and the wrecks of* millions 






do* 



THE MEW. ~0LFB. 61 

who had mistaken their soundings : and lastly, those 
vast polar waters which the Deity had locked with 
barriers of eternal ice, and from which those who en- 
tered them returned no more. I obserred that he was 
rather garrulous, and fond of repetition ; but I checked 
lisrespectfbl idea that might occur, by recollecting 
the effect of his condescension. He waved the 
roll at his departure ; and retiring, he left me in ad- 

The next was one whose steps were irregularly 
low, and his paces measured with extreme exactness. 

eye was :ed upon a chain which he was sic— - 

Jdng; the links were eternal adamant, and the 
chain was indissoluble. His look was the most con- 
templative I had ever beheld^ Reason seemed totally 
to have expelled all the passions, (which frequently 
share, and sometimes usurp her throne,) and to reign 
uncontrolled upon his brow; until, at the close of 
about five minutes, when he had accomplished some 
happy link in his chain, he gave a start of ecstasy, 
and Reason seemed to share her throne with Joy, and 

ign triumphant and combined upon his brow. 

other sages then approached him, and, from their 
conference, I collected that the se twc were Plato and 
Pythagoras ; and that their intention was to lay the 
foundation of their temple of science Pyl Liagoras laid 
the corner-stone; all mutually contributed their la- 
bours ; but I observed that they consigned to the first 
the arrangement of the material a 1 1 ::an half the 
work was effected, when their strength began to droop, 



42 REMAINS OF 

and I trembled for the temple, — I trembled for man- 
kind ; when a youth advanced, arrayed in a robe de- 
picted with strange symbols and characters ; his lan- 
guage was almost wholly numerical, so that I could 
not discover the country from which he came ; but I 
believe he was an Arab : he joined them with alacrity ; 
and the foundation was complete. 

Just at that moment, a flourish of martial music 
assailed my ear, so grand, that Plato, Pythagoras, and 
the temple were forgotten, and every sense was di- 
rected to the quarter whence it issued. A flood of 
glory enveloped him who entered, and concealed him, 
at first, from my view; but I heard the thunder of 
his footsteps. At length, I perceived an old man of 
the most august deportment : gods and men appear- 
ed to obey him ; for he raised his sceptre to heaven, 
and it thundered ; he stretched it over the earth, and 
a shock of a thousand armies was heard ; he struck 
the ground, and the groans of Erebus arose. His gar- 
ment flowed loose and unrestrained ; and a crown of 
immortal amaranths overshadowed his brow in artless 
and unarranged luxuriance. I now found that I had 
known him long before; the fire of heaven was in 
his eyes; and this was the cause that I did not at 
first recollect that I had known him before ; for then 
he was blind ; but the powers of darkness could no 
longer control them, and they had " burst their cere- 
ments/' I knew him now; and knowing him, I 
almost instinctively looked for another, and that other 
came. Unlike the rapid step of the former, his was 



THE KEV. C. WOLFE. 43 

composed and majestic : his garment flowed — not un- 
restrained,, but was adjusted with the most graceful 
and admirable symmetry: his wreath was not so 
luxuriant, but selected and combined with a taste the 
most fascinating and charming: he held a golden 
ploughshare in his right hand, and in his left a rich 
cluster of grapes; while bees fluttered in harmless 
swarms around his garland. He approached the first 
with a timid and hesitating step, and plucked some 
of the amaranths from his crown : the first turned to 
detect the theft ; but when he perceived the exquisite 
judgment with which they were disposed, he beamed 
forth an immortal smile of approbation : it was the 
smile of Apollo upon Mercury, when he found that he 
had stolen his arrows. 

Then came one in whose sparkling eye and rosy 
cheeks wit and good humour for ever beamed. I found 
I had known him before; and I confess I had the 
impudence to run and shake hands with him. His 
crown was of almost every leaf and flower that the 
earth produces ; among the rest, the myrtle of Venus, 
and the vine-leaf of Bacchus. At one time he gave 
enforcement to virtue and morality, with as much 
gravity as he could command ; at another, he handed 
me a goblet with an enchanting familiarity. I ob- 
served that he had an arrow from the quiver of Cu- 
pid ; yet, as soon as he had anointed it with a juice 
he had obtained from Momus, it became the shaft of 
Satire. At length he retired, and bidding me not to 
forget the happy hours we had spent together, he fol- 



44 REMAINS OF 

lowed the other two. — Farewell,, immortal bards, I 
will not forget you ; I will often turn from occupation 
and the world to you; and even when I enter on 
paths strewed with the flowers of other poets, I will 
remember that many of the sweetest are yours ! 

Then appeared a hero in a Grecian habit, who 
seemed deeply intent upon delineating a portrait, and, 
from the inscription, I perceived it to be that of So- 
crates. When it was perfected, he suddenly dropped 
the portrait, and grasped his sword, but still retained 
the pen ; at the same time, an invisible hand spread 
the spoils of Persia over his shoulders. 

Next came a Roman, whose words and appearance 
were widely at variance; his loose garments indicated 
his dissolute life, while his language was chaste and 
succinct ; his gestures indicated the debauchee, while 
historic truth and philosophic morality issued from his 
tongue. 

The next was in the habit of a Carthaginian slave ; 
modest wit and unaffected humour came in all the 
simplicity of nature from his lips : he held a volume 
which he incessantly studied, and in which I perceived 
the name of Menander. I then saw one, whose face 
it was impossible to behold without laughter: — the 
most poignant and yet the most indirect satire was 
depicted in every feature. I knew that he was a na- 
tive of the East, as he discharged his arrows in the 
Parthian method; but he wore a Grecian garment, so 
truly graceful and genuine, that it would not have 
disgraced the wardrobe of Plato. Still I could not 






THE REV. C. WOLFE. 45 

help feeling some indignation, when I saw him point 
his arrow in the direction in which Homer departed, 
and set his foot upon the image which Xenophon had 
dropped. I believe he perceived my displeasure; for 
he turned, and handing me three volumes, which 
I found to be Herodotus, Thucydides, and Xenophon, 
accompanied them with such a beautiful flow of pre- 
cepts upon the mode in which I should imitate them, 
that I totally forgot my resentment. 

Two others then appeared, similar in many respects, 
yet possessing some striking marks of difference. The 
first wielded a vengeful lash, under which folly and 
vice writhed in torture. Bold, intrepid, and open was 
his brow ; and as the streams of satire issued from his 
tongue, Rome seemed to rise with all its debauchery 
before me; — yet, once that he extended his theme to 
mankind in general, Rome and its peculiarities were 
forgotten, and he burst forth into a strain of such sub- 
lime morality, that I listened in expectation that, in 
the next sentence, I should hear the name of Christ 
issuing from his lips. The second who appeared used 
the lash with the same adroitness and severity, but 
with more caution. He seemed fearful of detection : — 
his face was muffled in such a manner, that many 
words escaped my ear, and therefore I could not 
always fully understand him. 

Scarcely had they departed, when I thought I heard 
the shout of countless multitudes ; and a Grecian and 
a Roman entered, both in the attitude of speaking. 
The first looked like Jove haranguing the gods. The 



46 REMAINS OF 

thunder seemed to issue from his tongue, and the 
lightning from his eye ; he stopped not to ornament, 
but all was irresistibly simple and commanding. But 
the second put me in mind of Apollo: — the Graces 
and the Muses seemed to throng around the rostra on 
which he stood ; the music of Helicon was on his lips ; 
and his eye, though devoid of the lightning of the 
former, beamed with a steady and diffusive light, — 
an eye that told all that was within, and collected all 
that was without. The first clanked a massy chain, 
and defied me to elude it ; the second, ere I was 
aware, had silently entangled me in golden shackles. 
A civic crown appeared to descend, and was just 
lighting upon the head of the first, when I beheld 
one hastily advance, and attempt to withdraw it ; he 
was equal to his antagonist in agility, but inferior in 
strength, and after a desperate contest he was com- 
pelled to yield, and the crown rested for ever on the 
victor's brow. Over the head of the last was inscribed 
in characters of living gold, " Pater Patriae," — and 
tyrants, usurpers, women, and hirelings, eagerly at- 
tempted in vain to erase it. 

But who can describe the scene that followed? — 
a scene of stupendous grandeur and overwhelming 
magnificence. For then advanced the man of science 
— the priest of nature, who cast a long and venturous 
look into the holy of holies ! the sanctuary of creation. 
Heaven and Earth saluted him — the Elements paid 
him homage, and Nature gave a burst of universal 
gratulation. He waved his wand, — and it seemed 



THE EEV. C. WOLFE. 47 

as if a vast curtain had been withdrawn from the face 
of heaven, and I saw the Sun with all his satellites in 
tenfold magnitude and splendour-, as if just fresh from 
the Creator ; the print of his hand was upon them ; 
and the traces of his finger, when he described the 
orbits in which they should move, were visible ; the 
harmony of their motions was so great that it could 
not be confined to one sense ; the harps of cherubim 
and seraphim beat time to their movements ; — " the 
" morning stars were singing together, and all the 
" sons of God were shouting for joy." I looked again 
at the sage: — angels and archangels were conversing 
with mm, and were revealing to him the mysteries of 
the universe. After some interval, he stooped to the 
earth, — and a voice, (as it were) from the bowels of 
the earth, seemed to declare the secrets of its prison- 
house, and the power of that tremendous grasp which 
holds the world together. Instantly a great number 
of philosophers crowded around him to catch the sound 
of the voice : each, according to the different words 
which he caught, formed some peculiar instrument, 
either of surprising efficacy, or beautiful construction. 
Still I never withdrew my eyes from him, upon whom 
indeed all eyes were intent ; and I beheld a rainbow, 
like a glory, encircling his brow; and the seven co- 
lours of heaven beamed with a living lustre around 
him. 

I know not how to describe the ludicrous circum- 
stance which drew my attention from a scene so en- 
chanting; I saw a figure approach, which I did not 



48 REMAINS OF 

at first perceive to be myself, so tattered and disfigured 
was my academic dress : while I was looking at my- 
self with the most sincere mortification/"" my gown 
began gradually to gather itself into large and graceful 
folds above my whole person; the sleeves began to 
lengthen ; and a sleek velvet overspread the unsightly 
pasteboard of my cap. I assure you, I gazed with 
perfect self-conceit upon the improvement of my cos- 
tume; but I was soon roused from my dream of 
vanity, by the appearance of Archimedes weighing 
the king of Syracuse's crown in water, and detecting 
the fraud of its master. 

Then advanced two buskined Grecians, both in 
long and sweeping garments, who looked with an eye 
of jealousy upon each other, and often related the 
same tale in different style and language, but still 
with all its shades of sorrow and horror. Their voices 
both seemed to have softened down the deep-toned 
thunder of Homer into the refined tenderness of 
Athenian music. They were attended by a band of 
virgins, who mimicked all their motions, — wept as 
they wept, and raged as they raged. Their language 
was sometimes so enigmatical, that, but for their 
beauty, I should have taken them for sphinxes. 

The last of that illustrious train which my vision 
presented, unfolded an immense picture, where I saw 
Rome in all and through all its vicissitudes. I saw 

* It may be proper to observe, tbat this alludes to the 
change of academic costume upon obtaining a scholarship, 
which honourable distinction he had just then acquired. 



THE KEV. C. WOLFE. * 49 

it rising under Romulus, — and sinking beneath the 
Gauls, — reviving under Camillus, — trembling before 
Hannibal,- — triumphant with Scipio, — the mistress of 
the world beneath Augustus. But, alas ! a large and 
brilliant portion was lacerated and defaced ; and I, in 
the warmth of my emotions, cursed the unclassic hand 
that could mar so fair a picture. I then heard a con- 
fused noise of Reason, right Reason, Obligation, Go- 
vernment — when, unluckily, my cap, which I had 
hung but loosely on a peg, fell and awoke me. I must 
however remark, that there were many forms, in 
academic dresses, passing to and fro during my dream, 
which I did not then notice, but which I have since 
learnt to value most dearly ; friends, who have since 
formed the brightest parts of the picture, and without 
whom, the beauties of the rest would to me have 
almost terminated with the vision in which they ap- 
peared; — friends, to whom I have turned from the 
page of Horace to realize the scenes he has described ; 
whose kindness has assisted me,— whose generosity 
has upheld me, — and whose conversation has height- 
ened my hours of pleasure, and mitigated my days of 
despair: and when I shall revert from the toils of 
manhood, and the imbecility of age, to this youthful 
period, it shall not be one of my least gratifications to 
recollect, that while I was employed in cultivating an 
acquaintance with the illustrious dead, I did not neg- 
lect to form a still more endearing attachment to the 
living. 



50 REMAINS OF 



PATRIOTISM. 



Angels of glory ! came she not from you ? 

Are there not patriots in the heaven of heavens ? 

And hath not every seraph some dear spot — 

Throughout th' expanse of worlds some favourite home 

On which he fixes with domestic fondness ? 

Doth not e'en Michael on his seat of fire, 

Close to the footstool of the throne of God, 

Rest on his harp awhile, and from the face 

And burning glories of the Deity, 

Loosen his riveted and raptured gaze, 

To bend one bright, one transient downward glance, 

One patriot look upon his native star ? 

Or do I err 1 — and is your bliss complete, 

Without one spot to claim your warmer smile, 

And e'en an angel's partiality ? 

And is that passion, which we deem divine, 

Which makes the timid brave, the brave resistless, — 

Makes men seem heroes, — heroes, demigods — 

A poor, mere mortal feeling ? — No ! 'tis false ! 

The Deity himself proves it divine ; 

For when the Deity conversed with men, 

He was himself a Patriot ! * — to the earth — 



* The observation of Bishop Newton upon the passage of 
Scripture thus alluded to, may be introduced here as autho- 
rity for the boldness of this expression. — u So deeply was our 
" Saviour affected, and so tenderly did he lament over the 
a calamities which were coming upon his nation ! Such a 
u generous and amiable pattern of a patriot-spirit hath he 
" left to his disciples, and so contrary to truth is the insinua- 
" tion of a noble writer, that there is nothing in the Gospels 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 51 

To all mankind a Saviour was lie sent, 
And all he loved with a Redeemer's love ; 
Yet still, his warmest love, his tenderest care, 

His life, his heart, his blessings, and his mournings, 
His smiles, his tears, he gave to thee, Jerusalem — 

To thee, his country ! — Though, with a prophet's gaze 



" to recommend and encourage the love of one's country !" 
— 18th Dissert, on the Prophecies, vol. ii. p. 138. 

I beg leave to add a quotation from Brown's admirable 
Essays on Lord Shaftesbury's Characteristics. To the objec- 
tion of the noble writer, that " Christianity does not enjoin a 
" zeal for the public, and our country," — it is thus replied : 
" If by zeal for the public, and love of our country, be meant 
" such a regard to its welfare as shall induce us to sacrifice 
" every view of private interest for its establishment, yet still 
" in subordination to the greater law of universal justice, — 
" that is naturally, nay, necessarily involved in the law of 
u universal charity. The noble writer indeed affirms, that 
" it is no essential part of the Christian's charity. On the 
" contrary, it is a chief part of the Christian's charity. It 
u comes nobly recommended by the examples of Jesus and 
" St. Paul ; the one wept over the approaching desolation of 
" his country ; the other declared his willingness to be cut 
" off from the Christian community, if by this means he 
" might save his countrymen." Speaking of the principle of 
universal love, in which this natural affection is included, the 
same author observes : " Christianity alone hath kindled in 
" the heart of man this vital principle, which, beaming there 
" as from a centre, like the great fountain of light and life 
" that sustains and cheers the attendant planets, renders its 
" proselytes indeed burning and shining lights, shedding their 
M kindly influence on all around them in that just proportion 
" which their respective distances may demand."— Pp. 231, 
236 — Editor. 



52 REMAINS OF 

He saw the future sorrows of the world ; 

And all the miseries of the human race, 

From age to age, rehearsed their parts before him ; 

Though he beheld the fall of gasping Rome, 

Crush'd by descending Vandals ; though he heard 

The shriek of Poland, when the spoilers came ; 

Though he saw Europe in the conflagration 

Which now is burning, and his eye could pierce 

The coming woes that we have yet to feel ; — 

Yet still, o'er Sion's walls alone he hung ; 

Thought of no trench but that round Sion cast : 

Beheld no widows mourn, but Israel's daughters ; 

Beheld no slaughter but of Judah's sons — 

On them alone the tears of Heaven he dropp'd ; 

Dwelt on the horrors of their fall — and sigh'd, 

" Hadst thou but known, even thou in this thy day, 

" The things which do belong unto thy peace, — 

" Hadst thou, O hadst thou known, Jerusalem 1" — 

Yet well he knew what anguish should be his 

From those he wept for • well did he foresee 

The scourge — the thorns — the cross — the agony ; 

Yet still, how oft upon thy sons he laid 

The hands of health ; how oft beneath his wing 

Thy children would have gather'd, O Jerusalem ! — 

Thou art not mortal— thou didst come from Heaven, 

Spirit of patriotism ! thou art divine ! 

Then, seraph ! where thy first descent on earth ? 

Heaven's hallelujahs, for what soul abandon'd ? — 

Close by the side of Adam, ere he woke 

Into existence, was thy hallow'd stand ; 

On Eden and on thee his eyes unclosed : 

For say, — instead of wisdom's sacred tree, 

And its sweet fatal fruit, had Heaven denied 

His daily visit to his natal spot, — 

Say, could our father boast one day's obedience ? — 

And wherefore, Eden, when he pass'd for ever 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 53 

Thy gates, in slow and silent bitterness, — 

Why did he turn that look of bursting anguish 

Upon thy fruits, thy groves, thy vales, thy fountains, 

And why inhale with agonising fervour 

The last — last breeze that blew from thee upon him ? — 

'Twas not alone because thy fruits were sweet — 

Thy groves were music — and thy fountains, health — 

Thy breezes, balm — thy valleys, loveliness ; 

But that they were the first ear, eye, taste, 

Or smell, or feeling had perceived or tasted, 

Heard, seen, inhaled ; — because thou wert his country I 

Yes, frail and sorrowing sire, thy sons forgive thee ! 

True, thou hast lost us Eden and its joys, 

But thou hast sufFer'd doubly by the loss ! 

We were not born there — it was not our country ! 

O holy Angel ! thou hast given us each 

This substitute for Paradise ; with thee, 

The vale of snow may be our summer walk ; 

The pointed rock, the bower of our repose ; 

The cataract, our music ; while, for food, 

Thy fingers, icy- cold, perhaps may pluck 

The mountain-berry ; yet, with thee, we '11 smile — 

Nor shiver when we hear, that Father Adam 

Once lived in brighter climes, on sweeter food. — 

But, ah ! at least to this our second Eden 

Permit no artful serpent to approach ; 

Let no foul traitor grasp at fruits which thou 

Hast interdicted ; and no sword of flame 

Flash forth despair, and wave us to our exile. 

Yet, rather than that I should rise in shame 

Upon my country's downfal, or should draw 

One tear from her, or e'en one frown from thee — 

Rather than that I should approach her walls, 

Like Caius Marcius, with her foes combined, 

Or turn, like Sylla, her own sons upon her, — 

Let me sit down in silence by thy side 



54 REMAINS OF 

Upon the banks of Babylon, — and weep, 

When we remember all that we have lost : 

Nor shall we always on the stranger's willow 

Allow our harp in sorrow to repose ; 

But when thy converse has inspired my soul, 

Roused it to frenzy, taught me to forget 

Distance, and time, and place 5 and woe, and exile, 

And I no more behold Euphrates' bank, 

And hear no more the clanking of my fetters, — 

Then, in thy fervours, shalt thou snatch thy harp, 

And strike me one of Sion's loftiest songs, 

Until I pour my soul upon the notes — 

Deep from my heart — and they shall waft it home. 

O Erin ! O my mother ! I will love thee ! 

Whether upon thy green, Atlantic throne, 

Thou sitt'st august, majestic, and sublime ; 

Or on thy empire's last remaining fragment, 

Bendest forlorn, dejected, and forsaken, — 

Thy smiles, thy tears, thy blessings, and thy woes, 

Thy glory and thy infamy, be mine ! 

Should Heaven but teach me to display my heart, 

With Deborah's notes thy triumphs would I sing — 

Would weep thy woes with Jeremiah's tears ; 

But for a warning voice, which, though thy fall 

Had been begun, should check thee in mid-air — 

Isaiah's lips of fire should utter, Hold ! — 

Not e'en thy vices can withdraw me from thee ; — 

Thy crimes I'd shun — thyself would still embrace ! 

For e'en to me Omnipotence might grant 

To be the " tenth just man," to save thee, Erin ! — 

And when I leave thee, should the lowest seat 

In Heaven be mine, — should smiling mercy grant 

One dim and distant vision of its glories, — 

Then if the least of all the blest can mix 

With Heaven one thought of earth, — I '11 think of thee. 




THE KEV. C. WOLFE. 55 



The fragments of the speech delivered from the chair,, 
in the Historical Society, which shall now be presented 
to the reader, can give but an imperfect idea of its 
merits as a whole ; however, they may serve to ex- 
hibit the character of his mind at that early period of 
his life, and afford an interesting ground of comparison 
between his juvenile efforts as a speaker, and his 
graver exertions in maturer years, when the sublime 
realities of religion had more fully engaged those sen- 
sibilities which were now so keenly alive to the ro- 
mance of poetry and the charms of general literature. 

After a modest and appropriate introduction, and 
a high panegyric on the objects and constitution of 
the society he was addressing, the speaker thus pro- 
ceeds : 

She (the Historical Society) sends her ambassador, 
to recall the wavering and disaffected to their allegi- 
ance, by displaying the beauties of her constitution ; 
that you may not desert the station for which nature 
and education have designed you; that you should 
not dare to frustrate a nation's hope, which looks to 
you for the guardians of her laws and the champions 
of her political prosperity ; that you should not pre- 
sume to neglect the voice of your God, who demands 
from among you the supporters of his church ; that 
a portion of mind — a mass of concentrated intellect, 
may issue from these walls, and overshadow the land ; 
and that, at length, after a glorious career of enlight- 
ened and diffusive utility, you may retire with dig- 



56 KEMAINS OF 

nity from the part you have acted, and Ireland com- 
mand posterity to imitate your example. Such are 
the objects to which you are now invited, from low 
pursuits and sordid gratifications- 



Poetry t demands no laborious intellectual intensity 
to imbibe her angelic counsels ; it is upon the hours 
of our pleasures she descends ; it is our recreation she 
exalts. Thus, she makes our hours of rapture or en- 
joyment the hours of our greatest elevation of soul : 
our relaxations become the most dignified moments of 
our existence. 

Will Science bend from her throne, or Philosophy 
relax her stateliness, to attend us in our brighter mo- 
ments and regulate our pleasures ? Science and Phi- 
losophy we must follow for their favours ; but love- 
ly, lovely Poetry condescends to be our companion. 
Poetry possesses an attribute of which all her sisters 
are destitute. The mind must conform itself to them ; 
but Poetry conforms herself to the mind ; she accom- 
panies it in every varied posture and every delicate 
inflection, — in buoyancy, and exertion, and indo 
lence. 



e 



-|- The introductory part of the subject of Poetry (which 
those who heard the speech delivered can recollect as pecu- 
liarly happy) is not to be found amongst the loose papers 
from which these fragments are transcribed. This will ac- 
count for the abruptness with which this part commences. — 
Editor. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 57 

It is this insinuation into all our pleasures, which 
gives her a species of omnipresence ; for, to him who 
loves her, — where is not Poetry ? * 

And believe not those who tell you that she will 
seduce the youthful mind from severe occupations — 
that science is excluded from her power, and phi- 
losophy from the heaven of her conversation. In the 
first ages of man, the Sciences entered the world in 
the disguise of Poetry. Morality it not only taught, but 
impelled. Instruction was conveyed not by preceptive 
sternness, but by the burst of inspiration. The bard 
was then all in all. He accounted for the phe- 
nomena of nature; he inquired into the essence of 
the mind ; and the savage looked up to him for the 
ethics that were to regulate his conduct. Poetry (it 
is known) had an early and intimate connexion with 
Astronomy: some say that she was born in yonder 
starry sphere, — that she first descended upon man, in 
the dews of heaven, while gazing on the firmament ; 
and the first music that saluted mortal ears, was the 
harmony of the morning stars : and, in process of 
greater refinement, when Poetry and Philosophy were 
necessarily distinguished, yet did their union and at- 
tachment still remain. Together they visited the 
same happy plains : the Muses danced in the groves 
of Academus ; and Greece gave the world at once its 
sages and its bards* 

But didactic poetry not only admits, but requires 
the co-operation of Philosophy and Science ; and our 
bold and independent language, by removing the bar- 



5S EEMAINS OF 

riers of rhyme, has thrown open to both a wider range 
for combined exertion. Then doubt not the rapturous 
exclamation of that sightless bard, who could pene- 
trate all the mysteries of the one, and tasted all the 
joys and consolations of the other, when he cried in 
admiration, 

" How charming is divine Philosophy !" 

for he found it 

" musical as is Apollo's lyre." 

divine preceptress ! that extinguishes no youthful 
ardour, but sends it kindling up to heaven, — that 
collects all the riches of the material creation, to 
beautify and illustrate the moral world, — that, by 
instilling admiration of what is lovely and sublime, 
assimilates the soul to what it admires, — that, setting 
unattainable perfection in the eye of youth, yet ren- 
ders it so fascinating that he cannot but proceed. 



But the science which Poetry loves most to study 
and to inculcate, is the philosophy of human nature, — 
the science of the human heart. The man of the 
world will tell you that he understands it, and will 
send you to the world as the source of his knowledge. 
He has collected a few loathsome and selfish depravi- 
ties, and bestows them, without distinction of cha- 
racter, as the attributes of the whole human race; 
and the result of all his important calculations, mighty 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 59 

researches,, and accumulated experience, is caution, 
distrust, and a contracted heart. But do not you 
likewise; do you look upon your common nature 
with hearts full of sensibility; weak as it is, con- 
template its grand and generous faculties, as well as 
its baser ingredients; — let it be yours to pity — 
perhaps to improve it. Poetry, both ancient and 
modern, presents the heart and passions perpetually 
to our contemplation. 



The criticism of Poetry is perhaps the best intro- 
duction to an analysis of the human mind. The 
dreariness of metaphysical abstraction has often de- 
terred genius from attempting a rugged pursuit, in 
which the mind is almost always fugitive, and will 
not pause to admit of a near inspection : but to ascer- 
tain the nature of the sublime, the beautiful, and 
picturesque, — to investigate the sources of our purest 
pleasures, and cultivate a taste, quick, delicate, and 
philosophical, — these bestow a gracefulness and ele- 
gance upon metaphysical disquisitions, that relax their 
sternness, and invite to more profound investigation. 
Nor would they merely invite, they would advance, 
they would enliven our progress ; and a sensibility of 
taste would make us acquainted with many a posture, 
and many a nice inflection of the mind, which logical 
and unrefined penetration would never have disco- 
vered. 

* -X- * * % 



60 REMAINS OF 

But the man of the world interposes, and tells us 
our joys are but ideal. Poor wretch ! and what are 
your realities ? The smile of capricious royalty, which 
the next hour's detraction may turn to a frown ; the 
shout of a stupid multitude, which scarcely waits 
a change of sentiment before it becomes the hiss of 
detestation ; the roar of nocturnal intemperance, which 
soon dies away in the groans of an expiring constitu- 
tion ; a catalogue of possessions, which extravagance 
may dissipate, which the robber may enjoy, and 
which war and the elements may annihilate; and, 
when sorrow and misfortune shall send you to your 
own heart for consolation, you will find it without 
imagination to enliven, and yet without sensibility 
enough to break it. — Give me my visions and my 
phantoms again; they will not desert me, — phan- 
toms as they are, the world has not the magic to 
dispel them; they shall still remain to give rapture 
to my joy and alleviation to my sorrows ; for gracious 
Nature has decreed that imagination shall survive 
when friends and fortune have forsaken us ; nay, even 
when reason itself has departed, and even when the 
noblest of our faculties is fled, not madness itself 
should quench that loveliest one: and well did the 
Grecian bard attest his conviction that the Muse 
would not abandon her afflicted votaries, when, amid 
the horrors of shipwreck, the poet stood naked over 
the ruins of his fortune, and said, " I have lost no 
thing." Yet, once he had enjoyed all the pomp and 
magnificence of courts, and all the luxury that afflu 



I 



ence could procure ; but well he knew that winds and 
waves could not waft him from his Muse. They 
might fling him in mid-ocean, and one single, solitary 
rock, amid the wilderness of waters, might ,be his 
home, — yet even there the Muse would follow; — 
she would seat him on the topmost crag, and place all 
the grandeur of sky and ocean beneath his dominion, 
— the riches of the firmament, 

" And all the dread magnificence of heaven." 

He would exult in the terrors of the deep, and hold 
mysterious converse with the genius of the storm ; — 
the very desolation that surrounded him would mi- 
nister to his pleasures, and add a fearful enthusiasm 
to his contemplations. Nor to these alone would his 
enjoyments be confined : but, while he seemed chained 
by nature to the rock on which he sat, his soul might 
be wandering into regions wild and luxuriant as the 
fancy that gave them birth, which Philosophy was 
never destined to discover, nor even Poetry, till then, 
had explored, 

Nor will the Muse leave her son comfortless in 
that more dreary solitude into which he may be drift- 
ed by shipwreck upon an ungrateful world, where the 
poet stands isolated in the midst of mankind. 

There lived a divine old man, whose everlasting 
remains we have all admired, whose memory is the 
pride of England and of Nature. His youth was dis- 
tinguished by a happier lot than, perhaps, genius has 
often enjoyed at the commencement of its career : he 



62 REMAINS OF 

was enabled, by the liberality of fortune, to dedicate 
his soul to the cultivation of those classical accomplish- 
ments in which almost his infancy delighted : he had 
attracted admiration at the period when it is most 
exquisitely felt : he stood forth the literary and po» 
litical champion of republican England ; — and Europe 
acknowledged him the conqueror. But the storm 
arose; his fortune sunk with the republic which he 
had defended ; the name which future ages have con- 
secrated was forgotten ; and neglect was embittered by 
remembered celebrity. Age was advancing — Health 
was retreating — Nature hid her face from him for 
ever, for never more to him returned 

" Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, 
" Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, 
" Or flocks or herds, or human face divine." — 

What was the refuge of the deserted veteran from 
penury — from neglect — from infamy — from dark- 
ness ? Not in a querulous and peevish despondency ; 
not in an unmanly recantation of principles — erro 
neousy but unchanged ; not in the tremendous renun 
ciation of what Heaven has given, and Heaven alone 
should take away ; — but he turned from a distracted 
country and a voluptuous court, — he turned from tri- 
umphant enemies and inefficient friends, — he turned 
from a world that to him was a universal blank, to 
the Muse that sits among the cherubim, — and she 
caught him into heaven ! 

The clouds that obscured his vision upon earth 






THE REV. C. WOLFE. 63 

instantaneously vanished before the blaze of celestial 
effulgence, and his eyes opened at once upon all the 
glories and terrors of the Almighty, — the seats of 
eternal beatitude and bottomless perdition. What, 
though to look upon the face of this earth was still 
denied — what was it to him, that one of the outcast 
atoms of creation was concealed from his view — when 
the Deity permitted the Muse to unlock his mysteries, 
and disclose to the poet the recesses of the universe — 
when she bade his soul expand into its immensity, 
and enjoy as well its horrors as its magnificence — 
what was it to him that he had " fallen upon evil 
days and evil tongues V for the Muse could transplant 
his spirit into the bowers of Eden, where the frown 
of fortune was disregarded, and the weight of incum- 
bent infirmity forgotten in the smile that beamed on 
primeval innocence, and the tear that was consecrated 
to man s first disobedience* 



The Muse, in this instance, raised the soul imme- 
diately, almost visibly, to heaven, and brought Re- 
ligion, with all her charms, to co-operate in the con- 
solation she bestowed. — But were we to analyse the 
effects of Poetry, we should soon discover that this is 
no partial union, but that the Muse must be neces- 
sarily a worshipper and an adorer of the Deity. I 
do not call upon you to view her in the moments of 
enraptured piety, — in her vigils and devotions with 
Young, or her heavenly conversations with Cowper : 



64 REMAINS OF 

it is her interest that there should be a God — it is her 
occupation to dwell with delight upon his attributes ; 
for are not the beautiful and sublime perpetual objects 
of her contemplation ? And she will naturally seek 
where they reside in superior perfection ; — and where 
shall she look for sublimity but in that unseen Being 
in whom is nothing finite,, — that Being of eternity, 
immensity, and omnipotence ? Nay, even in ideas of 
inferior sublimity, obscurity and terror, that are their 
leading characteristics, often impart a nameless sensa- 
tion of some unknown and mysterious presence ,* and 
darkness and silence, the tempest and the whirlwind, 
have borne testimony to the existence of God. 

Would not an universal cloud settle upon all the 
beauties of creation, if it were supposed that they had 
not emanated from Almighty energy ? — In the works 
of art, we are not content with the accuracy of feature 
and the glow of colouring, until we have traced the 
mind that guided the chisel and gave the pencil its 
delicacies and animation ; nor can we look with de- 
light upon the features of nature without hailing the 
celestial Intelligence that gave them birth : and there 
is something inexpressibly mournful in beholding an 
object with proportions and loveliness that seem im- 
mediately from heaven, to think that fair form and 
that exquisite and expressive harmony was a mass 
flung together by the dull and unselecting hand of 
chance, and that no mighty master of the work re- 
joiced in its completion. 

The Deity is too sublime for Poetry to doubt his 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 65 

existence. Creation has too much of the Divinity in- 
sinuated into her beauties to allow her to hesitate; 
she demands no proof, — she waits for no demonstra- 
tion ; — she looks, and she believes ; — she admires, and 
she adores. Nor is it alone with natural religion that 
she maintains this intimate connexion; for what is 
the Christian's hope, but Poetry in her purest and 
most ethereal essence ? Mark the Christian when the 
holy transport is upon him, — when the world sweeps 
by, and is disregarded, — when his whole frame seems 
to have precipitated his soul into other regions — is not 
Fancy wandering among the heavenly host, or bend- 
ing beneath the throne of its Creator, — is not his soul 
teeming with all the imagery of heaven — is it not ex- 
panding with unutterable poetry ? 

But let humbled Infidelity declare her triumphs, 
and the homage of Voltaire to the Muse's piety re- 
main a bright memorial of her allegiance to Chris- 
tianity. When the powers of hell seemed for a time 
to prevail, and his principles had given a shock to the 
faith of Europe, the daring blasphemer ventured to 
approach the dramatic Muse ; — but no inspiration 
would she vouchsafe to dignify the sentiments of im- 
piety and atheism. He found that no impassioned 
emotion could be roused, — no tragic interest excited, 
— no generous and lofty feeling called into action, 
where those dark and chilling feelings pervade: he 
complied with the only terms upon which the Muse 
would impart her fervours ; and the tragedies of Vol- 
taire display the loveliness of Christianity, below, 



66 REMAINS OF 

indeed, what a Christian would feel, but almost be- 
yond what unbelieving genius could conceive. Such 
was the victory of Poetry when she arrested the apos- 
tate while marching onward to the desolation of man- 
kind, — when the champion of modern philosophy fell 
down before the altar she had raised, and breathed forth 
the incense of an infiders adoration ! — when he came, 
like the disobedient prophet, that he might curse the 
people of God, and behold " he blessed them alto- 
gether." 

But why do I adduce mortal testimony? From 
the beginning she was one of the ministering spirits 
that stand round the throne of God, to issue forth at 
his word, and do his errands upon the earth. Some- 
times she has been the herald of an offending nation's 
downfal ; and often has she been sent commissioned to 
transgressing man, with prophecy and warning upon 
her lips; — but (at other times) she has been intrust- 
ed with " glad tidings of great joy;" and Poetry was 
the anticipating Apostle, the prophetic Evangelist, 
whose iC feet were beautiful upon the mountains — 
u that published salvation — that said unto Zion, 
" Thy God reigneth I" — Yet has she been accused of 
co-operating with luxury and fostering the seeds of 
private indolence and public supineness ; she has been 
stigmatised as the origin of moral deformity, because 
she often condescends to attend upon guilty man ; 
and where virtue has failed to withdraw him from his 
vices, has softened their effects, and prevented him 
from falling into brutality. The spoils of Persia 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 67 

would have relaxed the energies of Greece,, although 
Poetry had never descended from her throne on high 
to bless the visions of Grecian enthusiasm ; and hap- 
py, polished, enchanting Greece, the idol of our fond- 
est imagination, would have sunk into oblivion — into 
stupid luxury and mindless indolence. Thus, also, 
when the genius of Roman independence was aban- 
doning the world to Octavius, and retiring from his 
empire into everlasting exile, the Muse collected all 
her energies to bestow departing consolation; she 
wrought a moral miracle to arrest the headlong dege- 
neracy of Rome, and raised up Augustus to counteract 
the crimes that Octavius had committed. 

* * * * # 

But turn to Poetry and History united for your 
instruction. Human nature is common to both ; but 
different are their modes of tuition. They supply their 
respective delineations of character. Poetry, when at 
maturity, observes it as well with a painter's eye as 
with the scrutiny of a philosopher. She seizes the 
moment of sketching it when in its most picturesque 
attitude ; or, if there be many, she groups them so as 
that they may produce the best general effects ; and 
thus, without annihilating their deformities, she makes 
them conduce to a pleasing and fascinating impression. 
But rigid History takes character as she finds it ; she 
displays it more exact and impartial, but less attract- 
ive to our contemplation. Poetry displays the moral 
character; History, the moral and political. Poetry 



68 REMAINS OF 

makes the character more palpable; History, more 
complete. 

Behold History bending over the dying Theban ! 
the warriors are weeping around him; the javelin is 
still in his side. They imagined his glory was ter- 
minating with his life ; they fancied that because he 
had no mortal representative who should bear the 
merit of Epaminondas to future ages, posterity would 
have been permitted to forget him ; they thought they 
were sympathising with the mighty man, when they 
mournfully exclaimed, " You have no child I" At the 
word, the hero half arose ; the splendour of futurity 
irradiated his countenance ; the beams of History's 
immortal smile played upon his features, and his soul 
went forth, rejoicing, and exclaiming — u I have I" 

* * * # # 

While Hannibal was raging in the bowels of Italy, 
and observing the moment when Rome was vulnerable, 
she looked to her statesmen in her hour of peril; but 
statesmen were the pupils of their own experience; 
she thought the Fabii and Marcelli could form a tem- 
porary check to his advance or his ravages ; but Scipio 
looked into the ages that were past, and saw the pre- 
figuration of Rome's deliverance. We are told that 
the Muse of history descended upon the meditating 
hero ; that she showed him the harbour of Syracuse, 
and told him a tale of former days : " That in the 
" dead of night, when Syracuse was plunged in uni- 
" versal mourning and consternation, when the over- 






THE BEV. C. WOLFE. 69 

" whelming navy of Carthage was riding in her har- 
" bour, and the next day's light threatened to conduct 
cc the enemy into her citadel, — with a policy unique 
c * and sublime, she clandestinely dismissed her garrison 
" to the coast of Africa ; and when the senate of Car- 
iC thage expected the gates of Syracuse to open, they 
" heard that the warriors of Syracuse were beneath 
" her own walls." The hero applied the glorious 
suggestion: — he embarked his legions — he sailed to 
Africa; he left the host of Carthage in Italy, and 
obeyed the instructions of History. And did she in- 
struct him aright? — You will read your answer in 
the tears of Hannibal when he threw his last look 
upon the delightful plains of Italy. 

Such was the benefit of historical retrospect in 
ancient days ; but its value is now incalculably aug- 
mented; for, of the sciences, history is that which is 
always advancing. Mathematics and philosophical 
improvements may be long at a stand; poetry and 
the arts are often stationary, often retrograde; but 
every year, every month, every day, is contributing 
its knowledge to the grand magazine of historical ex- 
perience. Look at what the last years have added, 
and behold how History gathers as she rolls along — 
what new attractions she holds forth to mankind. 
But, with what an accession of beauty she invites the 
Briton to the study of her charms, while she recounts 
the acts and heroism and glories of her country ! 



70 REMAINS OF 

Let the energies of England be extinct; — let her 
armies be overwhelmed; — let her navy become the 
spoil of the enemy and the ocean; — let the national 
credit become a by- word; — let the last dregs of an 
exhausted treasury be wrung from her coffers; — let 
the constitution crumble; — let the enemy ride in her 
capital, and her frame fall asunder in political disso- 
lution ; — then stand with History on one hand, and 
Oratory on the other, over the grave in which her 
energies lie entombed, — and cry aloud! Tell her 
that there was a time when the soul of a Briton 
would not bend before the congregated world : — tell 
her that she once called her sons around her and 
wrung the charter of her liberties from a reluctant 
despot's hand: — tell her that she was the parent of 
the band of brothers that fought on Crispin s day : — 
tell her that Spain sent forth a nation upon the seas 
against her, and that England and the elements over- 
whelmed it: — tell her that six centuries were toiling 
to erect the edifice of her constitution, and that at 
length the temple arose: — tell her that there are 
plains in every quarter of the globe where Victory has 
buried the bones of her heroes, — 

" That the spirits of her fathers 

" Shall start from every wave, 
" For the deck it was their field of fame, 

" And ocean was their grave j" — 

When the earth opened upon Lisbon and swallowed 
her in the womb, — tell her that she stretched her 
hand across the seas and raised her from the bowels 



I 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 71 

of the earth into the world again : — tell her that when 
the enemy of human liberty arose, the freedom of the 
whole world took refuge with her ; that, with an arm 
of victory, alone and unaided, she flung back the 
usurper, till recreant Europe blushed with shame ; — 
tell her all this ; and I say that the power of lethargy 
must be omnipotent, if she does not shake the dust 
from her neck, and rise in flames of annihilating ven- 
geance on her destroyer. 

For him who peruses history, every hero has fought, 
— every philosopher has instructed, — every legislator 
has organized; — every blessing was bestowed, — every 
calamity was inflicted for his information. In public, 
he is in the audit of his counsellors, and enters the 
senate with Pericles, Solon, and Lycurgus about him : 
in private, he walks among the tombs of the mighty 
dead; and every tomb is an_ oracle. — But who is he 
that should pronounce this awakening call ? who is he 
whose voice should be the trumpet and war-cry to an 
enslaved and degraded nation? — It should be the 
voice of such a one as he who stood over slumbering 
Greece, and uttered a note at which Athens started 
from her indolence, Thebes roused from her lethargies, 
and Macedon trembled. * * * ■ 



Soon after the delivery of this speech, Mr. Wolfe 
began to turn his mind with more than his usual dili- 
gence to the minor branches of mathematics and na- 
tural philosophy prescribed in the under-graduate 



72 REMAINS OF 

course: and in the short time he thus devoted his 
labours, he evinced so great a capacity for scientific 
attainments, that those friends who could best esti- 
mate his talents for such abstruse subjects, earnestly 
urged him to the arduous task of reading for a fellow- 
ship. His diffidence in his own powers, however, 
prevented him from entering upon it until some time 
after he took the degree of Bachelor of Arts, to which 
he was admitted in the year 1814. He was at length 
persuaded to determine upon this pursuit, and all his 
friends entertained the most sanguine hopes of his suc- 
cess, so far as they could depend upon the steadiness 
of his application. 

For a short period he prosecuted his studies with 
such effect as to render it a matter of regret to all who 
were interested for him, that he did not persevere in 
his efforts, and that he allowed any trifling interrup- 
tions to divert him from his object. He evinced, in- 
deed, a solidity of understanding, and a clearness of 
conception, which, with ordinary diligence and proper 
management, might have soon made him master of 
all those branches of learning required in the fellow- 
ship course of the Dublin University ; but the habits 
of his mind, and the peculiarity of his disposition, and 
the variety of his taste, seemed adverse to anything 
like continued and laborious application to one definite 
object. It was a singular characteristic of his mind, 
that he seldom read any book throughout, not even 
those works in which he appeared most to delight. 
Whatever he read, he thoroughly digested and accu 



- 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 73 

rately retained ; but his progress through any book of 
an argumentative or speculative nature was impeded 
by a disputative habit of thought and a fertility of in- 
vention, which suggested ingenious objections and start- 
ed new theories at every step. Accordingly, this con- 
stitution of mind led him rather to investigate the 
grounds of an author's hypothesis, and to satisfy his 
own mind upon the relative probabilities of conflicting 
opinions, than to plod on patiently through a long 
course, merely to lay up in his memory the particular 
views and arguments of each writer, without con- 
sideration of their importance or their foundation. He 
was not content to know what an author's opinions 
were, but how far they were right or wrong. The 
examination of a single metaphysical speculation of 
Locke, or a moral argument of Butler, usually cost 
him more time and thought than would carry ordinary 
minds through a whole volume. It was also remark- 
able that in the perusal of mere works of fancy — the 
most interesting poems and romances of the day — he 
lingered with such delight on the first striking passages, 
or entered into such minute criticism upon every beauty 
and defect as he went along, that it usually happened, 
either that the volume was hurried from him, or some 
other engagement interrupted him before he had finish- 
ed it. A great portion of what he had thus read he 
could almost repeat from memory ; and while the re- 
collection afforded him much ground of future enjoy- 
ment, it was sufficient also to set his own mind at 
work in the same direction. 



74 REMAINS OF 

The facility of his disposition also exposed him to 
many interruptions in his studies. Even in the midst 
of the most important engagements, he had not reso- 
lution to deny himself to any visiter. He used to 
watch anxiously for every knock at his door, lest any 
one should be disappointed or delayed who sought for 
him ; and such was the good-natured simplicity of his 
heart, that, however sorely he sometimes felt the in- 
trusion, he still rendered himself so agreeable even to 
his most common-place acquaintances, as to encourage 
a repetition of their importunities. He allowed him- 
self to become the usual deputy of every one who ap- 
plied to him to perform any of the routine collegiate 
duties which he was qualified to discharge ; and thus 
his time was so much invaded, that he seldom had 
any interval for continued application to his own im- 
mediate business. Besides, the social habit of his 
disposition, which delighted in the company of select 
friends, and preferred the animated encounter of con- 
versational debate to the less inviting exercise of soli- 
tary study; and his varied taste, which could take 
interest in every object of rational and intellectual 
enjoyment, — served to scatter his mind and divert it 
from . that steadiness of application which is actually 
necessary for the attainment of distinguished eminence 
in any pursuit. 

About the time he had entertained thoughts of read- 
ing for a fellowship, he had become acquainted with 
an interesting and highly respectable family, who re- 
sided in the most picturesque part of the county of 



THE REV* C. WOLFE. 75 

Dublin. Previously to this he had been long immured 
within the city, and had seldom made even a day's 
excursion amidst the lovely scenery of the surround- 
ing country, The beauties of nature seemed to break 
upon him with all the charms of novelty, and were 
heightened by being shared with friends of congenial 
feelings. The sensations thus excited soon awakened 
his slumbering Muse, and found their natural ex- 
pression in all the fervours of poetic inspiration. The 
reader shall be presented here with a specimen of his 
powers in descriptive poetry. The subject is " Lough 
Bra}^ ;" a romantic # and magnificent scene, which lies 
about six miles south of Rathfarnham, in the northern 
part of the county Wicklow. It is a sequestered spot 
in the midst of a region of wildest mountains and hills. 
There are two lakes, called the upper and lower, the 
latter of which is the more beautiful and extensive. 
It is situated near the top of an abrupt mountain, and 
is almost circular in its shape, — a circumstance Which 
has probably given rise to the conjecture that it may 
be the crater of an extinct volcano. Its area is said 
to be thirty-seven Irish acres. Close beside it stands 
a precipice of several hundred feet, near the top of 
which is a dark overhanging cliff, commonly called 
the cc Eagle's Crag ;" and the lake itself sometimes 
overflows and glides down the side of the mountain in 
the opposite direction. This brief description of the 
principal features of the scene, may serve to prepare 
the reader for what he is to expect in the little poem 
which follows. 



76 REMAINS OF 



FAREWELL TO LOUGH BRAY. 

Then fare thee well ! — I leave thy rocks and glens, 

And all thy wild and random majesty, 

To plunge amid the world's deformities, 

And see how hideously mankind deface 

What God hath given them good : — while viewing thee. 

I think how grand and beautiful is God, 

When man has not intruded on his works, 

But left his bright creation unimpair'd. 

'Twas therefore I approach'd thee with an awe 

Delightful, — therefore eyed, with joy grotesque — 

With joy I could not speak ; (for on this heart 

Has beauteous Nature seldom smiled, and scarce 

A casual wind has blown the veil aside, 

And shown me her immortal lineaments,) 

'Twas therefore did my heart expand, to mark 

Thy pensive uniformity of gloom, 

The deep and holy darkness of thy wave, 

And that stern rocky form, whose aspect stood 

Athwart us, and confronted us at once, 

Seeming to vindicate the worship due, 

And yet reclined in proud recumbency, 

As if secure the homage would be paid : 

It looked the genius of the place, and seem'd 

To superstition's eye, to exercise 

Some sacred, unknown function. — Blessed scenes ! 

Fraught with primeval grandeur ! or if aught 

Is changed in thee, it is no mortal touch 

That sharpen'd thy rough brow, or fringed thy skirts 

With coarse luxuriance : — 'twas the lightning's force 

Dash'd its strong flash across thee, and did point 

The crag; or, with a stormy thunderbolt, 

Th' Almighty architect himself disjoin'd 

Yon rock ; then flung it down where now it hangs, 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 77 

And said, u Do thou lie there ;" — and genial rains 

(Which e'en without the good man's prayer came down) 

Call'd forth thy vegetation. — Then I watch'd 

The clouds that coursed along the sky, to which 

A trembling splendour o'er the waters moved 

Responsive ; while at times it stole to land, 

And smiled among the mountain's dusky locks. 

Surely there linger beings in this place, 

For whom all this is done : — it cannot be, 

That all this fair profusion is bestow'd 

For such wild wayward pilgrims as ourselves. 

Haply some glorious spirits here await 

The opening of heaven's portals ; who disport 

Along the bosom of the lucid lake ; 

Who cluster on that peak ; or playful peep 

Into yon eagle's nest ; then sit them down 

And talk to those they left on earth, and those 

Whom they shall meet in heaven : and, haply tired, 

(If blessed spirits tire in such employ,) 

The slumbering phantoms lay them down to rest 

Upon the bosom of the dewy breeze. — 

Ah ! whither do I roam — I dare not think — 

Alas ! I must forget thee ; for I go 

To mix with narrow minds and hollow hearts — 

I must forget thee — fare thee, fare thee well ! 



The following stanzas will convey some idea of the 
sensations with which the poet returned from such 
scenes as this to the sombre walls of a college, and 
how painfully he felt the transition from such enjoy- 
ments to the grave occupation of academic studies. 



78 REMAINS OP 



SONG. 



Oh say not that my heart is cold 

To aught that once would warm it — 
That Nature's form, so dear of old, 

No more has power to charm it ; 
Or that th' ungenerous world can chill 

One glow of fond emotion 
For those who made it dearer still, 

And shared my wild devotion. 

ii. 

Still oft those solemn scenes I view 

In rapt and dreamy sadness ; 
Oft look on those who loved them too 

With fancy's idle gladness ; 
Again I long'd to view the light 

In Nature's features glowing ; 
Again to tread the mountain's height, 

And taste the soul's o'erflowing. 

in. 

Stern Duty rose, and frowning flung 

His leaden chain around me ; 
With iron look and sullen tongue 

He mutter'd as he bound me — 
" The mountain breeze, the boundless heaven, 

u Unfit for toil the creature ; 
a These for the free alone are given, — 

" But what have slaves with Nature ?" 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 79 



A description of an enchanting scene in the county 
Wicklow— « the Dargle," or Glen of the Oak"— 
cannot fail to interest any one who has had the hap- 
piness to visit it, and is gifted with taste to enjoy it. 
This little sketch, though written in prose, is ani*- 
mated by the very spirit of poetry, and is so graphi- 
cally accurate in the delineation of every feature of 
that lovely spot, that it seems capable of summoning 
up before the imagination, as by magic, the whole 
scene, in all its vivid colouring and its distinctive 
forms of beauty. 

THE DARGLE. 

We found ourselves at Bray about ten in the morn- 
ing, with that disposition to be pleased which seldom 
allows itself to be disappointed ; and the sense of our 
escape from everything not only of routine, but of 
regularity, into the country of mountains and glens 
and valleys and waterfalls, inspired us with a sort of 
gay wildness and independence, that disposed us to 
find more of the romantic and picturesque than per- 
haps Nature ever intended. If therefore, gentle read- 
er, thou shouldest here meet with any extravagances 
at which thy sober feelings may be inclined to revolt, 
bethink thee, that the immortal Syntax himself, when 
just escaped from the everlasting dulness of a school, 
did descry a landscape even in a post, — a circum- 
stance which probably no one had ever discovered 
before. 



80 BEMAINS OF 

We proceeded to the Dargle along the small river 
whose waters were flowing gently towards us after 
having passed through the beautiful scenes we were to 
visit, It was here a tranquil stream, and its banks 
but thinly clothed; but at the opening of the Dargle- 
gate, the scene was instantly changed. At once we 
were immersed in a sylvan wilderness, where the trees 
were thronging and crowding around us ; and the river 
had suddenly changed its tone, and was sounding 
wildly up the wooded bank that sloped down to its 
edge. We precipitated ourselves towards the sound, 
— and when we stopped and looked around us, the 
mountains, the champaign, and almost the sky had 
disappeared. We were at the bottom of a deep wind- 
ing glen, whose steep sides had suddenly shut out 
every appearance of the world that we had left. At 
our feet a stream was struggling with the multitude 
of rude rocks, which Nature, in one of her primeval 
convulsions, had flung here and there in masses into 
its current; sometimes uniting into irregular ledges, 
over which the water swept with impetuosity; — 
sometimes standing insulated in the stream, and in- 
creasing the energies of the river by their resistance ; 
— sometimes breaking forward from the bank, and 
giving a bolder effect to its romantic outline. The 
opposite side of the glen, that rose steeply and almost 
perpendicularly from the very brink of the river, was 
one precipice of foliage from top to bottom, where the 
trees rose directly above each other (their roots and 
backs being in a great degree concealed by the pro- 



THE REV. C. WOLFE, 81 

fusion of leaves in those below them), and a broken 
sunbeam now and then struggled through the boughs, 
and sometimes contrived to reach the river. 

The side along which we proceeded was equally 
high, but more sloping and diversified ; and the wood- 
ing, at one time retiring from the stream, while at 
another a close cluster of trees of the freshest verdure 
advanced into the river, bending over it in attitudes 
at once graceful and fantastic, and forming a pictu- 
resque and luxuriant counterpart to the little naked 
promontories of rock which we before observed. Both 
sides of the glen completely enclosed us from the view 
of every thing external, except a narrow tract of sky 
just over our heads, which corresponded in some de- 
gree to the course of the stream below ; so that in fact 
the sun seemed a stranger, only occasionally visiting 
us from another system. Sometimes while we were 
engaged in contemplating the strong darkness of the 
river as it rushed along, and the pensive loveliness of 
the foliage overhanging it, a sudden gleam of sunshine 
quietly yet instantaneously diffused itself over the 
scene, as if it smiled almost from some internal percep- 
tion of pleasure, and felt a glow of instinctive exhila- 
ration. Thus did we wander from charm to charm, 
and from beauty to beauty, endlessly varying, though 
all breathing the same wild and secluded luxury, the 
same poetical voluptuousness. This new region, set 
apart from the rest of creation, with its class of fan- 
ciful joys attached to it, seemed allotted to some 
creature of different elements from our own, — some 

G 



82 REMAINS OF 

airy being, whose only essence was imagination. As 
the thought occupied us, we opened upon a new ob- 
ject which seemed to confirm it. The profuse wooding 
which formed the steep and rich barrier of the opposite 
side of the river, was suddenly interrupted by a huge 
naked rock that stood out into the stream, as if it had 
swelled forward indignantly from the touch of cultiva- 
tion, and, proud of its primitive barrenness, had flung 
aside the hand that was dispensing beauty around it, 
and that would have intruded upon its craggy and 
original majesty. It was here that our imaginations 
fixed a residence for the Genius of the river and the 
Spirit of the Dargle. A sort of watery cell was formed 
by the protrusion of this bold figure from the one side, 
and the thick foliage that met it across from the other, 
and threw a solemn darkness over the water. In 
front, a fragment of rock stood in the middle of the 
current, like a threshold ; and a spreading tree hung 
its branches directly over it, like a spacious screen in 
face of the cell. From this we began gradually to 
ascend, until our side became nearly as steep as the 
opposite, while the wooding was thickening on both 
at every step ; so that the glen soon formed one steep 
and magnificent gulf of foliage. The river at a vast 
distance, almost directly below us ; the glad sparkling 
and flashing of its waters, only occasionally seen, and 
its wild voice mellowed and refined as it reached us 
through thousands of leaves and branches ; the variety 
of hues, and the mazy irregularity of the trees that 
descended from our feet to the river, — were finely 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 83 

contrasted with the heavier and more monotonous mass 
that met it in the bottom, down the other side. 

In stepping back a few paces, we just descried, over 
the opposite boundary, the top of Sugar-loaf, in dim 
and distant perspective. The sensations of a mariner, 
when, after a long voyage without sight of shore, he 
suddenly perceives symptoms of land where land was 
not expected, could not be more novel and curious 
than those excited in us by this little silent notice of 
regions which we had literally forgotten, — so totally 
were we engrossed in our present enchantment, and 
so much were our minds, like our view, bounded by 
the sides of the glen. This single object let in a whole 
train of recollections and associations ; but the charm 
could not be more gradually and more pleasingly broken. 
The glen, still retaining all its characteristic luxuri- 
ance, began gracefully to widen, — the country to open 
upon us, and the mountains to rise ; and at length, 
after a gentle descent, we passed the Dargle-gate, and 
found ourselves standing over the delightful valley of 
Powerscourt. It was like a transition from the enjoy- 
ments of an Ariel to those of human nature, — from 
the blissful abode of some sylphic genius, to the hap- 
piest habitations of mortal men, — from all the restless 
and visionary delights of fancy, to the calm glow of 
real and romantic happiness. Our minds, that were 
before confused by the throng of beauties that enclosed 
and solicited them on every side, now expanded and 
reposed upon the scene before us. The sun himself 
seemed liberated, and rejoicing in his emancipation. 



84 EEMAINS OF 

The valley indeed " lay smiling before us ;" the river, 
no longer dashing over rocks and struggling with im- 
pediments, was flowing brightly and cheerfully along 
in the sun, bordered by meadows of the liveliest green, 
and now and then embowered in a cluster of trees. 
One little field of the freshest verdure swelled forward 
beyond the rest, round which the river wound, so as 
to give it the appearance of an island. In this we 
observed a mower whetting his scythe, and the sound 
was just sufficient to reach us faintly and at intervals. 
To the left was the Dargle, where all the beauties that 
had so much enchanted us were now one undistin- 
guishable mass of leaves. Confronting us, stood Sugar- 
loaf, with his train of rough and abrupt mountains, 
remaining dark in the midst of sunshine, like the 
frowning guardians of the valley. These were con- 
trasted with the grand flowing outline of the moun- 
tains to our right, and the exquisite refinement and 
variety of the light that spread itself over their gi- 
gantic sides. Far to the left, the sea was again dis- 
closed to our view, and behind us was the Scalp, like 
the outlet from Paradise into the wide world of thorns 
and briers. 

* * * * * 



A BIRTH-DAY POEM. 

Oh have you not heard of the harp that lay 
This morning across the pilgrim's way — 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 85 

The wayward youth that loved to wander 
By twilight lone up the mountain yonder ? 
How that wild harp came there not the wisest can know, 
It lay silent and lone on the mountain's brow ; 
The eagle's down on the strings that lay 
Proved he there had awaited the dawning ray ; 
But no track could be seen, nor a footstep was near, 
Save the course of the hare o'er the strings in fear, — 
And ah ! no minstrel is here to be seen 
On our mountain's brow, or our valleys green ; 
And if there were, he had miss'd full soon 
His wild companion so sweet and boon. — 
While the youth stood gazing on aghast, 
The wind it rose strong, and the wind it rose fast, 
Quick on the harp it came swinging, swinging — 
Then away through the strings it went singing, singing, 
Til) a peal there arose so lofty and loud, 
That the eagle hung breathless upon his cloud ; 
And away through the strings the wind it went sweeping, 
Till the spirit awoke, that among them was sleeping — 
It awoke, it awoke ; 
It spoke, it spoke — 
u I am the spirit of Erin's might, 

" That brighten'd in peace, and that nerved her in fight — 
" The spirit that lives in the blast of the mountain, 
" And tunes her voice to the roll of the fountain — 
" The spirit of giddy and frantic gladness — 
'<• The spirit of most heart-rending sadness — 
£c The spirit of maidens weeping on 

" Wildly, tenderly— 
" The spirit of heroes thundering on 

" Gloriously, gloriously ; — 
u And though my voice is seldom heard, 
u Now another's song 's preferr'd, 
" I tell thee, stranger, I have sung 
" Where Tara's hundred harps have rung — 



86 REMAINS OF 

" And I have rode by Brien's side, 

" Rolling back the Danish tide — 

u And know each echo long and slow 

u Of still — romantic Grlandulough ; 

" Though now my song but seldom thrills, 

" Lately a stranger awaken'd me ; 
" And Genius came from Scotland's hills, 

" A pilgrim for my minstrelsy. — 
u But come — more faintly blows the gale, 
u And my voice begins to fail — 
" Pilgrim, take this simple lyre — 
u And yet it holds a nation's fire — 
" Take it, while with me 'tis swelling, 
" To your stately lowland dwelling — 
u There she dwells — my Erin's maid — 
wt In her charming native shade ; 
" I have placed my stamp upon her, 
" Erin's radiant brow of honour ; 
a Spirits lambent — heart that 's glowing— 
" Mind that 's rich, and soul o'erflowing ; 
u She moves with her bounding mountain-grace, 
' ' And the light of her heart is in her face : 
" Tell the maid — I claim her mine — 
iC For Erin it is her's to shine ; 
u And, that she still increase her store 
" Of intellect and fancy's lore, 
" That I demand from her a mind 
" Solid, brilliant, strong, refined ; 
u And that she prize a patriot's fire, 
" Beyond what avarice can desire ; 
<: And she must pour a patriot's song 
u Her romantic hills along." — 
Her name is * * * 

Faintly died 

The blast upon the mountain side, 
Nor scarcely o'er the clouds it brush'd ; 
And now the murmuring sound is hush'd, — 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 87 



Yet sweetly, sweetly, * * rung 
On the faltering spirit's tongue — 
Speak again, the youth he cried, — 
But no faltering sprite replied ; 
Wild harp, wild harp, 

To * * I will take thee — 
Wild harp, wild harp, 

She perhaps will wake thee. 



SONG. 

i. 
Oh my love has an eye of the softest blue, 

Yet it was not that that won me ; 
But a little bright drop from her soul was there — 

'Tis that that has undone me. 

I might have pass'd that lovely cheek, 
Nor, perchance, my heart have left me ; 

But the sensitive blush that came trembling there, 
Of my heart it for ever bereft me. 

in. 

I might have forgotten that red, red lip — 
Yet how from the thought to sever 1 

But there was a smile from the sunshine within, 
And that smile I '11 remember for ever. 

IV. 

Think not 'tis nothing but lifeless clay, 
The elegant form that haunts me — 

'Tis the gracefully delicate mind that moves 
In every step, that enchants me. 



88 REMAINS OF 

V. 
Let me not hear the nightingale sing, 

Though I once in its notes delighted : 
The feeling and mind that comes whispering forth 

Has left me no music beside it. 

VI. 

Who could blame had I loved that face, 
Ere my eye could twice explore her ? 

Yet it is for the fairy intelligence there, 
And her warm — warm heart I adore her. 



TO A FRIEND. 

i. 

My own friend — my own friend ! 
There 's no one like my own friend ; 

For all the gold 

The world can hold 
I would not give my own friend. 

ii. 
So bold and frank his bearing, boy, 
Should you meet him onward faring, boy 

In Lapland's snow 

Or Chili's glow, 
You 'd say what news from Erin, boy ? 

in. 

He has a curious mind, boy — 
'Tis jovial — 'tis refined, boy — 

'Tis richly fraught 

With random thought, 
And feelings wildly kind, boy. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 89 

IV. 

'Twas eaten up with care, boy, 
For circle, line, and square, boy — 

And few believed 

That genius thrived 
Upon such drowsy fare, boy. 



But his heart that beat so strong, boy ; 
Forbade her slumber long, boy — 

So she shook her wing, 

And with a spring 
Away she bore along, boy. 

VI. 

She wavers unconfined, boy, 
All wayward on the wind, boy, 

Yet her song 

All along 
Was of those she left behind, boy. 

VII. 

And we may let him roam, boy, 
For years and years to come, boy ; 

In storms and seas — 

In mirth and ease, 
He '11 ne'er forget his home, boy. 

VIII. 

O give him not to wear, boy, 
Your rings of braided hair, boy — 

Without this fuss 

He'll think of us— 
His heart — he has us there, boy. 



90 REMAINS OF 

IX. 

For what can't be undone, boy, 
He will not blubber on, boy — 
He '11 brightly smile, 
Yet think the while 
Upon the friend that 's gone, boy. 



O saw you his fire- side, boy, 
And those that round it bide, boy, 

You 'd glow to see 

The thrilling glee 
Around his fire-side, boy. 

XI. 

Their airy poignant mirth, boy, 
From feeling has its birth, boy ; 

'Tis worth the groans 

And the moans 
Of half the dolts on earth, boy. 

XII. 

Each soul that there has smiled, boy, 
Is Erin's native child, boy — 

A woodbine flower 

In Erin's bower, 
So elegant, so wild, boy. 

XIII. 

The surly clouds that roll, boy, 
Will not for storms console, boy : 

'Tis the rainbow's light 

So tenderly bright 
That softens and cheers the soul, boy. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 
XIV. 

I 'd ask no friends to mourn, boy, 
When I to dust return, boy — 

No breath of sigh 

Or brine of eye 
Should gather round my urn, boy. 

xv. 

I just would ask a tear, boy, 
From every eye that 's there, boy j 

Then a smile each day, 

All sweetly gay, 
My memory should repair, boy. 

XVI. 

The laugh that there endears, boy — 
The memory of your years, boy — 

Would more delight 

Your hovering sprite 
Than half the world's tears, boy. 



Something, perhaps, may be discovered in the latter 
poems beyond the mere inspiration of the Muse ; and 
it might therefore appear inexpedient to pass by, 
without some short notice, a circumstance in the life 
of our author so interesting as that which the reader 
may have already suspected. With the family al- 
luded to in these poems, he had been for some time in 
habits of the most friendly intercourse, and frequently 
had the happiness of spending a few days upon a visit 
at their country residence, sharing in all the refined 
pleasures of their domestic circle, and partaking with 



-1 



92 REMAINS OF 

them in the exhilarating enjoyment of the rural and 
romantic scenery around them. With every member 
of the family he soon became cordially intimate ; but 
with one this intimacy gradually and almost uncon- 
sciously grew into a decided attachment. The attain- 
ment of a fellowship would indeed have afforded him 
means sufficient to realise his hopes ; but, unhappily, 
the statute which rendered marriage incompatible with 
that honourable station, had been lately revived. His 
prospects of obtaining a competency in any other pur- 
suit were so distant and uncertain, that the family of 
the young lady deemed it prudent at once to break off 
all further intercourse, before a mutual engagement 
had actually taken place. 

How severely this disappointment pressed upon 
a heart like his, may easily be conceived. It would 
be injustice to him to deny that he long and deeply 
felt it : but he had been habitually so far under the 
influence of religious principles, as to feel assured that 
every event of our lives is under the regulation of 
a wise Providence, and that by a resigned acquiescence 
in his arrangements, even our bitterest trials may be 
overruled for our best interests — our truest happiness. 
This circumstance, perhaps, weakened the stimulus to 
his exertions for the attainment of a fellowship, — but 
he had long before relaxed them ; it does not, how- 
ever, appear that it had any influence in determining 
the choice of his profession, as the prevailing tendency 
of his mind had always been towards the sacred office 
of the ministry. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 93 

In a short time after this severe disappointment,, 
and a few days previous to his ordination (which took 
place in November 1817)., his feelings received another 
shock by the death of a dear fellow-student,* one of 

* The editor cannot forbear indulging his feelings by a 
brief record of the lamented friend alluded to in the above 
passage. The name of Hercules Henry Graves, with whom 
we were both united in bonds of the closest intimacy, will 
not be read, even by a common acquaintance, without 
awakening sentiments of regret for the loss which society 
has sustained in the early removal of so much intellectual 
and moral worth. He was the second son of the learned 
and excellent Dean Graves, professor of divinity in the Dub- 
lin University. With talents at once solid and shining, he 
combined an invincible perseverance, a masculine strength of 
understanding, and an energy of spirit which crowned his 
academic labours with the most distinguished honours, and 
afforded the surest pledge of rapid advancement to profes- 
sional eminence. These rare endowments of mind were ac- 
companied by qualities of greater value, — a high moral taste, 
a purity of principle, a generosity of spirit, and an affec- 
tionate temperament of heart, which secured him the respect 
and regard of every individual of his widely-extended ac- 
quaintance. 

This happy union of mental and moral qualities was set off 
by a constant flow of good-humour, an equability of temper, 
and a frankness and cordiality of manners, which diffused an 
instantaneous glow of exhilaration through every circle in 
which he appeared. He was on the point of being called to 
the Irish bar, and was universally allowed to be the most 
promising aspirant of his contemporaries to its honours and 
emoluments, when, unhappily, his health began to break 
down. He was ordered to the South of France, where he 
died in November 1817, "in the fear of God, and the faith of 



94 REMAINS OF 

his most valued and intimate friends. Under the 
deep impression of two such afflictive trials, he was 
obliged to prepare for a removal from society which 
he loved, — from the centre of science and literature, 

Jesus Christ," as he himself wished it to be recorded on his 
tomb. His illness was made the happy occasion of directing 
his mind more fully to the concerns of his immortal soul, 
which he felt he had too much overlooked in the busy pur- 
suit of earthly objects. The study of religion had not, how- 
ever, been neglected by him : with our author and two other 
friends he had been in the habit of reading and discussing 
some of the ablest works upon the evidences of the Christian 
faith ; and it is to be presumed, that the impressions thus 
made upon his understanding were not lost upon his heart. 
They seemed to have recurred to his mind with full force in 
his illness. He took special comfort in the gracious assurance, 
" Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out ;" 
anxiously considering the full import of the phrase, et to come 
unto Christ." The view of our blessed Redeemer, as God 
and Man — as one " able and willing to save to the uttermost 
all that come unto the Father through him," was indeed 
" an anchor of his soul, both sure and steadfast," at the near 
prospect of eternity. It enabled him not merely to close his 
eyes with resignation upon the brightest earthly prospects, 
but to look forward with holy hope to an imperishable hap- 
piness. May this, amongst many other similar examples, 
serve to show that vital religion is not unworthy of the 
greatest mental powers, or incompatible with the highest at- 
tainments of secular learning : and may it impress upon the 
conscience of every reader, that a time will come when the 
strongest mind will want all the sustaining consolations which 
a steadfast faith in the Gospel is calculated to bestow. 

h^ov vwvov 
KoifAuruf tivrterzuv py \iyi rov; ayaQou;. — EDITOR. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 95 

to which he was so much devoted,, to an obscure and 
remote country curacy in the north of Ireland, where 
he could not hope to meet one individual to enter into 
his feelings, or to hold communion with him upon the 
accustomed subjects of his former pursuits. He felt 
as if he had been transplanted into a totally new 
world ; as a missionary abandoning home and friends, 
and cherished habits, for the awful and important 
work to which he had solemnly devoted himself. 

At first he was engaged in a temporary curacy, not 
far remote from the situation in which he was soon 
afterwards permanently fixed. An extract from a 
letter to one of his college friends, will give some idea 
of the state of his feelings upon his arrival at the 
place where he was now to enter upon his new sphere 
of duties. 

Ballyclog, Tyrone, Dec. 11th, 1817. 



" I am now sitting by myself opposite my turf-fire, 
u with my Bible beside me, in the only furnished 
" room of the Glebe House, surrounded by mountains, 
" frost and snow, and by a set of people with whom 
a I am totally unacquainted, except a disbanded ar- 
" tilleryman, his wife and two children, who attend 
" me, the churchwarden and clerk of the parish. Do 
u not however conceive that I repine ; I rather con- 
" gratulate myself on my situation ; however, I am 
u beginning rather poetically than historically, and 
" at once hurrying you, c in medias res/ Alas ! what 
" could bring Horace into my head here ! — Well, I 



96 BEMAINS OP 

cc arrived at Auchnacloy, without an adventure, on 
Ci Saturday, at half-past eleven ; posted from thence 

" to the Glebe House of Mr. S , a fine large man- 

" sion, situated in a wild, bleak country, alternately 
" mountain and bog. * * * On Sunday I ar- 
" rived at this place, where I opened my career by 
" reading prayers. * * * Comparatively happy 

u should I be if I could continue the hermit of B ; 

" but I am not doomed to such seclusion. * * * 

" My dear , I want you and my friends more 

" than ever. Write immediately all of you to the 

" hermit of B 

" Ever yours, 
" C. W." 



i( MY DEAR 

" I shall follow your example in not wasting my 
" paper either in professions or apologies. Suffice it 
iC to say, that a day or two before I received your 

ec letter, I had written to C. D , which I con- 

" ceived was writing to the gang ; and was since 
" obliged to leave my hermitage at Ballyclog, and 
" officiate in my own parish for the first time on 
" Christmas-day, not being qualified to consecrate the 
" sacrament ; and since my return have been for some 

u time engaged at * * * Well, my dear 

cc fellow, though it may appear as selfisn as para- 
" doxical, I look upon you as more my companion 
" since I have heard that you are more alone. You 



THE KEV. C, WOLFE. 97 

"" are more like me, and have more leisure to think of 
" me. * * * I am now in a country far su- 
u perior, both in cultivation and society, to that 
ic which is my ultimate destination. I am surround- 
" ed by grandees, who count their incomes by thou- 
" sands, and by clergymen innumerable; — however, 
" I have kept out of their reach ; I have preferred 
" my turf-fire, my books, and the memory of the 
" friends I have left, to all the society that Tyrone can 

■' furnish — with one bright exception. At M 's 

{C I am indeed every way at home ; I am at home 
" in friendship and hospitality, in science and litera- 
" ture, in our common friends and acquaintance, and 
" in topics of religion. * * * 

ci Ever yours, 

« C. W " 

Before we proceed further, it may be important as 
well as interesting to give some view of the religious 
character of the author previous to his ordination, and 
to trace the progress of his mind towards that high 
state of Christian principle to which he afterwards at- 
tained. 

His family all represent him as being from child- 
hood impressed with religious feelings : and during his 
college life the writer had full opportunity of perceiv- 
ing that they had not been effaced. 

The pure moral taste, which seemed almost a 
natural element of his mind, may properly be at- 
tributed to the gradual and insensible operation of 

H 



98 REMAINS OF 

that divine principle with which he had been so early 
embued. 

In many cases, " The kingdom of God (as our 
" blessed Lord himself declares) is as if a man should 
" cast seed in the ground ; and should sleep, and rise 
" night and day, and the seed should spring and grow 
" up, he knoweth not how — first the blade — then the 
" ear — after that, the full corn in the ear." 

Such, in some measure, appears to have been the 
advancement of his mind/ in the formation of that 
high religious character which he ultimately reached ; 
but in his case, there was at least one marked stage 
of this progress. Religion had evidently a restraining 
influence on him at all times ; it kept him back from 
the vulgar dissipation and usual vices of youth. He 
was exemplary, I might say blameless, in his moral 
conduct, and scrupulous in the discharge of duty : and 
though naturally impetuous in his feelings, habitually 
lively and even playful in his temper and manners, 
yet there was manifestly an influence in his heart and 
a guard upon his tongue, which never permitted him 
to violate the rules of strictest chastity or decorum. 
He was devout and regular in his habits of private 
prayer and in attendance upon public worship ; and I 
have often seen him affected even to tears in reading 
the sacred Word of inspiration. But when he came 
to preach the doctrines and duties of Christianity to 
others, they burst upon his mind in their full magni- 
tude, and in all their awful extent : he felt that he 
himself had not given up his whole heart to God, — 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 99 

that the Gospel of Christ had held but a divided em- 
pire in his soul ; and he looked back upon his earlier 
years with self-reproach and self-distrust, when he 
recalled to mind the subordinate place which the love 
of God had possessed in his heart., — If such a man 
could feel reason to contemplate the days of his youth 
with emotions of this kind, what should be the feel- 
ings of him who has lived altogether " without God 
in the world?" — who has scarce ever known what it 
was to control a passion or regulate a desire, or per- 
form a single action, with an exclusive reference to 
the divine will ? 

" Yet will there come an hour to him, 

" When anguish in his breast shall wake, 

" And that bright eye-ball, weak and dim, 

" Gazing on former days, shall ache ; — 

u When solitude bids visions drear 

" Of raptures, now no longer dear, 

" In gloomy ghastliness appear — 

" When thoughts arise of errors past — 

" Of prospects foully overcast — 

" Of passion's unresisted rage — 

" Of youth that thought not upon age — 

" Of earthly hopes, too fondly nurst, 

" That caught the giddy eye at first, 

" But like the flowers of Syrian sands, 

" That crumbled in the closing hands."* 

I will venture to introduce here, merely as indica- 
tions of his youthful piety, some religious thoughts 
which are scattered amongst his earliest papers. ♦ 

* Anster's Poems (Edinburgh, 1819), p. 146. 



100 KEMAINS OF 

Those miserable sceptics who boast of their ima- 
ginary discernment, are only a sort of intellectual 
glow-worm: — they borrow their glimmer from dark- 
ness, and exult in its pitiful and momentary spark : 
but the day — " the day-spring from on high" will 
soon come, — and then they are but — worms ! — Dost 
thou dispute the existence of a Providence? From 
thee, dust and reptile, I appeal to the Heavens ; from 
thee, undistinguished link in the chain of nature, I 
appeal to the Universe. 

I have often considered, that if it were proposed to 
man by his Maker, to select and mention the most 
faultless transactions of his life, and to offer up the 
catalogue at the shrine of his Judge, he would either 
be totally confounded and perplexed, or would make 
a very erroneous and defective selection: he would 
even offer up vices for virtues ; sins for acts of good- 
ness : he would perhaps present a memorial of deeds 
which appeared meritorious to the world and to him- 
self, the motive of which was perhaps not only un- 
christian, but criminal ; the incentive to which was a 
lurking, smothered pride, a deceitful and seductive am- 
bition, or some passion which screened and shrouded 
itself in the garb of religion. I will suppose that at 
such an awful crisis, when he was to make such an 
oblation to his Father and Eedeemer, he perceives the 
futility of those splendid actions which dazzled his in- 
considerate fellow-creatures, as the native offspring of 
virtue ; I will suppose that he perceives their insuffi- 



I THE REV. C. WOLFE. 101 

ciency and omits them ; yet,, even of his silent retired 
behaviour,, of his noiseless and unseen conduct, how 
many actions are there which may dazzle himself! 
He will certainly make a statement of some deed 
which appeared to him generous and charitable ; and 
will think that because it was done in secret and 
without ostentation, its motive must be pure ; (but, 
alas ! pride can inhabit the lonely chamber and the 
solitary bosom — can mingle in the prayers of the an- 
chorite, and can stretch the hand of bounty; for we 
can flatter ourselves — yes, as destructively as the 
world can natter us;) while perhaps some little 
thought which we had long forgotten as insignificant, 
— some truly devout contemplation, — some pious re- 
flection drawn from the very depth of the heart, may 
be that offering which his God looked for, — that for- 
gotten contemplation — that reflection, which was the 
emanation of a soul which then felt the genuine in- 
fluence of religion. How difficult is it then to be 
acquainted with ourselves, and what a true con- 
fession do we make when we say, " There is no 
health in us V * * * * 

These reflections will appear to the pious reader to 
indicate something more than vague and general no- 
tions of religion. They exhibit, at least, the dawning 
of an enlightened conscience, and an early sensibility 
to the impressions of divine truth. It is natural to 
suppose that such a mind would be fully alive to the 
responsibility of the ministerial office; and accord- 



102 REMAINS OF 

ingly, when the period approached when Mr. W. had 
to determine upon the solemn undertaking, he gave 
up his mind to the most anxious consideration of the 
duties it imposed upon him, and of the preparation of 
mind and heart which it required. Some of those 
standard works on the evidences of Christianity, which 
he had been in the habit of reading, he now resumed 
for the purpose of a more serious and practical investi- 
gation. He seems to have dwelt with peculiar interest 
upon Bishop Butler's unanswerable work upon the 
Analogy of Religion, &c. This treasure of deep and 
original thought — the leading object of which is to 
expose the unreasonableness of the ordinary arguments 
against the truth of religion — seems to have been pe- 
culiarly suited to the character of his mind, which was 
easily startled by difficulties, and was quick in the 
discovery of objections. His copious notes upon this 
book show not only how accurately he scrutinized 
every argument, but how practically he expanded 
and applied every important reflection which it con- 
tains. Some of the observations thus suggested, and 
which seem to have impressed his own mind most 
deeply, are here selected, with the hope that they 
may prove not unacceptable or uninstructive to the 
general reader. They may serve to inculcate a stronger 
sense of the vast importance of religion as a subject 
of anxious and candid -inquiry, and may induce some, 
who are unacquainted with the valuable work from 
which they have been deduced, to give it a serious 
and deliberate perusal. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 103 

There is strong evidence of the truth of Christi- 
anity : but it is certain that no one can, upon prin- 
ciples of reason, be .satisfied of the contrary : now the 
practical consequence to be drawn from this is not 
attended to by every one concerned in it. This sug- 
gests an excellent way of beginning with a Deist or 
Atheist : — Have you satisfactorily disproved Christi- 
anity? Is it possible that all the evidence (collect- 
ively taken), though it may not have satisfied you of 
its truth, has been satisfactorily removed ? Are you 
at your ease upon the subject? And if not, what 
a miserable man must you be ! Surely it is not such 
a hollow case. 

This may be the best way of proceeding, whatever 
may be the truth denied; — the existence of a God, of 
a moral governor, of a future life, the truth of Scrip- 
ture, &c. : and it is, in fact, the state in which we 
probably are by nature — not so much with convin- 
cing proof that there is a future state, as with no 
convincing proof to the contrary. If it be objected, 
that it is rather slender ground upon which to stand, 
merely that we cannot prove the contrary, or the false- 
hood of the thing ; we may answer, that it is not in- 
tended to be ground to rest on; — it is intended to set 
us in motion ; and the evidence will grow in propor- 
tion to the earnestness and sincerity to ascertain the 
point. Now, is there not a moral fitness in this, — 
that evidence should be progressive, and that in pro- 
portion to the singleness of eye and the diligence with 
which it is sought and investigated ? And does it not 



104 REMAINS OF 

appear particularly becoming the Divine Majesty that 
this should be the case in all inquiries respecting his 
works and dispensations? and that he who enters 
upon the investigation in a presumptuous, careless, or 
profane state of mind, should be confounded ? In this 
point of view, also, may be regarded the objections 
made by some to the insufficiency of the evidence in 
proof of a state of future punishment : it may be an- 
swered, — Are you duly affected by the bare surmise 
— by the mere whisper that there is such a state ? 
Does it excite that degree of concern and inquiry 
which it ought ? And if it does not, is it not a proof 
that there is something more than a mere want of 
evidence concerned in your unbelief? Is there any 
thing improbable in the supposition that the Almighty 
may proportion the evidence to the degree of sincere 
earnestness manifested in the inquiry? — and that 
when the earnestness is proportioned to the object, the 
evidence shall be proportioned to the earnestness ? 

In order to give an idea of the way in which the 
truth may grow upon a man, we may speak of the 
growing conviction arising from the constant observa- 
tion of the artlessness and simplicity of the style of 
the divine writings, as an evidence of their truth, and 
that arising from the self-application of the truths and 
principles of the Gospel, until at length a man shall 
experience what Scripture intimates, u The witness in 
himself;" which passage alone shows, that the Scrip- 
ture itself declares the witness shall be greater after 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 105 

the attainment of the Christian spirit, than at the 
beginning of a cold investigation. Is there any thing 
unbecoming in this ? The conduct of the people of 
Sychar may serve as an illustration, John iv. 39, &c. 
It may also be observed, that it is a grand test ol 
truth, that the more it is examined, the clearer it 
appears. Thus, too, the apparent contradictions of 
Scripture are reduced to harmony by examination, 
as the apparent irregularities of nature by the micro- 
scope. 

The analogy in favour of our future state, founded 
on the various changes that we and other animals un- 
dergo, is of considerable weight, It might be, perhaps, 
a little weakened by the consideration that these 
changes are all attended with sensible proofs; and 
that therefore we could not draw as strong a conclu- 
sion, by analogy, in favour of one that should not be 
attended with them. It might at the same time be 
replied, that unless we draw the conclusion that there 
are no changes but what we have faculties to witness, 
the objection is of no weight. It might also be an- 
swered, that there may be very sufficient proof of our 
existence after death to beings capable of receiving it, 
though not to those of the same species ; as we have 
abundant proof of the changes of worms into flies, 
while perhaps the worms of the same species, until 
their change arrives also, have no idea, and no proof 
of it, — perhaps have not senses to witness it. 



106 REMAINS OF 

The credibility of a future state of existence is fully 
sufficient to become a practical principle,, however low 
the evidence may appear : for, at the very lowest, we 
cannot prove the negative. 

But further, that a being should be formed of such 
a nature as man, and placed in such a situation as to 
try this most momentous question, and feel an interest 
in its determination, and yet never be able to arrive 
at a satisfactory negative, is not only a practical 
proof, but perhaps a stronger evidence of the actual 
truth of the thing, than would at first be imagined. 
This state of doubt and perplexity upon the most im- 
portant and interesting of all subjects, is a curious 
moral phenomenon: — and where are we to look for 
the solution ? It is solved by revelation : — for, taking 
the two principles, the immortality and the fall of 
man, nothing is so conceivable as that the fall, in 
destroying so much of the moral excellence of man, 
carried off many of the proofs of his immortality along 
with it, — proofs, many of which, it is natural to sup- 
pose, were of a moral character, — perhaps the greatest 
of them, a moral fitness for it. 

From Bishop Butler's observations on " Divine 
Punishments/' there may be ready and experimental 
answers deduced to many of the common-place and 
popular objections advanced against the reality or se- 
verity of future punishments. One favourite plea is 
the character of the Divine Being : " He is too mer- 
" ciful and benevolent to visit human infirmity with 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 107 

" such rigorous severity." But what is the fact ! He 
only allows men " to make themselves as miserable 
as ever they please." He gives them faculties to in- 
quire and discover consequences ; and if, by either not 
exerting them, or not complying with their rational 
dictates when exercised, they incur pain and misery, 
it is their own doing, and he leaves them to " eat the 
fruit of their own devices." Thus if we consider the 
Deity as merely passive in the business, and we ob- 
serve men from want of sufficient consideration (for 
they generally bestow more or less upon their worldly 
concerns) bringing on themselves disease, misery, and 
ruin, — what an awful state is his who has never se- 
riously and earnestly given himself to the considera- 
tion of the things of another world ! Nor is it very 
likely that, when want of consideration (a fault of 
little magnitude in the estimation of men, and even 
dignified by some with virtuous titles and epithets) 
can produce such tremendous results here, — the con- 
sequences of sin, spiritual and external, (although men 
overlook and despise them,) will be so very light or 
so very inconsiderable, as they would fondly persuade 
themselves they are, in another world. And hence 
too we see the folly, in general, of pleading ignorance 
or sincerity as our excuse for carelessness or sin ; for 
we find thoughtlessness and neglect often produce as 
disastrous consequences as vice itself: and the sin 
here is plain ; for a creature not only gifted with, but 
distinguished, in a great degree, from the rest of the 
creation, by powers of deliberation and observation, is 



108 REMAINS OF 

bound to use them ; and if he shoves aside a subject, 
the most important upon which those powers can be 
employed, on which his happiness chiefly depends, 
and one which is often forced upon his attention by 
outward events and circumstances, without full, de- 
liberate meditation, and without arriving at any well- 
grounded conclusion upon the matter, what shall be 
said of that man's sincerity ? There is an evident 
dishonesty and unfairness evinced in shutting his eyes 
to what he is absolutely bound to contemplate, — and 
he must take the consequences : and such is the case 
of all those who have not seriously, earnestly, and 
deliberately considered the things that belong unto 
their peace. They may not be guilty of hypocrisy 
towards their fellow- creatures, but they act the hy- 
pocrite to God and to themselves. 



The inefficiency of repentance (in the common ac- 
ceptation) may be enforced by considering a man on 
a bed of pain and sickness, to which he has been 
brought by his own folly or wickedness. Do we find 
that floods, of tears, and protestations of amendment, 
ever produce any improvement in that man's bodily 
state? — What reason have we to conclude, from pre- 
cedent or analogy, that they will relieve his soul ? 

Repentance, in its fullest sense, a change from a 
state of enmity to a state of love to God, one would 
think, is ever acceptable : but this is always the work 
of the Spirit given through Jesus Christ, and never ap- 
pears to be the meaning attached to it by the careless 






THE REV. C. WOLFE. 109 

or the ungodly, or even apprehended by them; and 
therefore it does not enter into the present question. 

The profligate argument, that if God gave us such 
and such passions, he gave them to be enjoyed with- 
out restraint, is here immediately answered : If God 
gave us such and such faculties, he gave them to be 
used, and their use is to control those passions ; and 
we daily see the woful consequences of not exercising 
them, by actual observation. If the offence, by which 
the passion is gratified, is committed against our- 
selves, perhaps we should come to a different con- 
clusion. 

Man is gifted with powers of looking to the future, 
and evidently for the purpose of mainly preferring it 
to the present : he is therefore a creature made to look 
forward,- — and to what ? is the question. Some men 
madly fasten upon the present moment, and shut 
their eyes to what is naturally to follow ; and accord- 
ingly they reap the fruit of their folly in due season : 
others, who are either of a more calculating, or a more 
enterprising, or a more ambitious disposition, look 
forward to various futurities at various distances ; but 
death comes equally upon all, and their futurities are 
no more to them. To what, then, is man made to look 
forward ? There are here also to be taken into ac- 
count the multiplied uncertainties attending the suc- 
cess of the various projects, arising out of unnumbered 
events and circumstances which it is beyond the power 



110 REMAINS OF 

of the natural faculties to foresee or avert. This may 
be urged in contrast to revelation. 

Such reflections as these may tend to show that his 
faith was not the offspring of mere feeling, — that the 
doctrines of Christianity were not embraced by him 
simply from their congeniality to his pure and fervid 
imagination ; but that he applied himself, with all the 
sober calculation of common sense, and all the powers 
of a clear and reasoning mind, to the examination of the 
important subject. His religion was the conviction of 
the understanding, as well as the persuasion of the heart. 
With a firm assurance of the truth and importance of 
the great principles of the Gospel as they are inter- 
preted and maintained by the Church of England, he 
entered upon the arduous duties of the ministry. The 
more he was engaged in the work, the more deeply he 
felt the responsibility ; the more he was in the habit of 
teaching others, the more he seemed to learn himself. 
He thus came more in contact, as it were, with the 
business of religion ; his views became more vivid, his 
heart more engaged; and every day's experience ap- 
pears to have strengthened his faith and heightened 
his devotion. The process by which his religious cha- 
racter was formed seems to have been so gradual, that 
it produced little apparent change in his external 
manners. His natural spirits were not so much re- 
pressed as regulated, his vivacity of temper was rather 
chastened than abated, by the predominant influence 
of religion. There was nothing which appeared con- 






THE REV. C. WOLFE. Ill 

strained, or harsh, or assumed in his deportment ; and 
thus his ministry was rendered doubly useful, espe- 
cially amongst the higher classes, with whom the 
simplicity and cheerfulness of his disposition, and the 
easy and undesigned disclosure of his fine talents and 
genuine piety, usually secured him a favourable re- 
ception and a candid attention. 

A few more extracts from his letters may illustrate 
this paxt of his character better than any mere descrip- 
tion. It should be observed, that when he sat down, 
after the fatigue of parochial cares, to converse with 
his absent friends, he sought for a relaxation of mind, 
and usually gave full scope to that buoyant liveliness 
of temper for which he was remarkable : and thus, 
perhaps, those who were not acquainted with him can 
hardly estimate the intense anxiety and interest he 
felt upon subjects to which he sometimes appears to 
allude in a playfulness of spirit : besides, his nature 
so much recoiled from any thing like ostentation, that 
he seldom entered into any detail of his laborious 
duties, or mentioned any such particulars of his mi- 
nistry (except in an incidental manner) as might sup- 
ply an adequate idea of his usefulness as a clergyman. 

The following letter was written upon his return to 
his parish, after a short visit to Dublin : — 

C. Caulfield, Jan. 28th, 1818. 
" MY DEAR 

(e A man often derives a wonderful advantage from 
" a cold and fatiguing journey, after taking leave of 



112 EEMAINS OF 

" his friends ; viz. he understands the comfort of loll- 
" ing quietly and alone by his fire-side, after his ar- 
" rival at his destination ; a pleasure which would 
<c have been totally lost if he had been transported 
" there without difficulty, and at once, from the re- 
" gion of friendship and society. .Every situation 
" borrows much of its character from that by which 
" it was immediately preceded. This would have 
" been all melancholy and solitude, if it had imme- 
u diately succeeded the glow of affectionate and lite- 
" rary conviviality ; but when it follows the rumbling 
" of a coach, the rattling of a post-chaise, the shiver- 
"" ing of a wintry night's journey, and the conversation 
" of people to whom you are almost totally indifferent, 
" it then becomes a comfort and repose. So I found 
" at my arrival at my .own cottage on Saturday ; my 
" fire -side, from contrast, became a kind of lesser 
" friend, or at least a consolation for the loss of 
" friends. 

<c Nothing could be more fortunate than the state 
u of things during my absence ; there was no duty to 
" be performed : and of this I am the more sensible, 
" as I had scarcely arrived before I met a great sup- 
ec ply of business, such as I should have been very 
" much concerned if it had occurred in my absence. 
cc I have already seen enough of service to be again 
" fully naturalized. I am again the weather-beaten 
" curate : — I have trudged roads — forded bogs — 
ec braved snow and rain — become umpire between the 
" living — have counselled the sick — administered to 



THE KEV. C. WOLFE. 113 

" the dying — and to-morrow shall bury the dead. — 
" Here have I written three sides without coming to 
" the matter in hand. * * * 

" Yours affectionately, 

" C. W." 



March 24th, 1818. 



cc Although I have not received an answer to a 
" letter which I wrote to you, and the date of which 
ec I have had time to forget, I am induced to write 
iC again, and redouble my blow, partly in order to 
" shame you into an answer, and partly to employ 
f* you to execute a commission for me in turn. 

" I attended Mr. , my predecessor in the cure, 

" through some of the parish business, and have not 
i( yet recovered from my consternation. — Oh ! I must 
" bid a long farewell to literature, and all the pleasures 
" and associations which it carries along with it ! Do 
" not think that I repine, and least of all, at my duty 
(C as a Christian and a clergyman ; but here is a pa- 
" rish large beyond all proportion, in which the curate, 
" who here does every thing, will be unavoidably 
" called on every moment to act indirectly as a ma- 
" gistrate ; and, as I must take a cottage and a few 
" acres of meadow, I shall have to encounter all the 
" horrors of house-keeping, and all the cares of an 
" establishment. Considering all this, and the length 
" of time that even one visit, strictly professional, 

i 



114 REMAINS OF 

" would take up, from the extent of the parish, what 
" time shall I have for taking up even a book of di- 
ic vinity ? But ' my hand is to the plough, and 

" I must not look back/ — At B , a small parish, 

" where I have had little to do but what is connected 
" immediately with my duty, I think I have g6t on 
" pretty well. I told you that I had been preceded 
u in that parish by an excellent man, and found them 
C£ far better informed than perhaps any parish in our 
ic part of the world, and prepared to be disgusted 
u with any successor. We agree however very well : 
u the parish and I are on visiting terms, and in the 
6< habit of conversing on Christian topics ; and they 
£i tell me that they wish for my continuance. I look 
" upon it as a providential circumstance, that I have 
" been first called to the performance of duty more 
" moderate and more purely apostolical, and was not 
" at once plunged into the parish, where it is exces- 
u sive, and of a more mixed nature. 



* 


# * 


•# 


" Yours ever, 




« c. w: 



The next letter gives an account of his removal 
from his temporary post, and his final settlement in 
Castle Caulfield, the principal village of the parish of 
Donoughmore. It was written after a visit to Dublin 
upon some parochial business. 






u MY DEAR 

cc Ti * 1^1 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 115 

July 7th, 1818. 



It is probable that you have accounted for my 
" silence in the right way — by the trouble and con- 

" fusion of shifting rny quarters. I have left B 

" with sincere regret, and am now in the comfortable 
" predicament of having left one habitation without 
" having got into another, like Sheridan's Jew, who 
" renounced his religion for the purpose of inheriting 
" a legacy, but had too much conscience immediately 
" to adopt any other, and is accordingly represented 
" ' as a dead wall between the church and the syna- 
Ci gogue/ 

" I had but a melancholy sort of a journey to Dun- 
" gannon, being, for the first half of the way, in per- 
" petual danger of falling asleep, and consequently of 
" falling off the top of the coach, from the fatigue of 
" the college election, and the incessant patrolling 
" through Dublin the day after ; and for the other 
" half, trundling on so vile a vehicle, over so vile 
" a road, that twenty doses of laudanum could not 
u then have effected it. On leaving Dungannon for 
" this (my rector's house) I was met by the family, 

iC who told me I was to do duty at B the next 

" day, and so I changed my direction and repaired 
" there, nothing loth ; and the next day mounted my 
" old pulpit, where I had begun to feel myself at 
u home, and received a most kind welcome from my 
i£ congregation. 

" As I was apprised that I was to stay no longer 



116 BEMAINS OF 

" than the next Saturday, I made the best of my 
" time, in taking leave of my parishioners ; and I 
" assure you, it was a painful and a gratifying task, 
«. — although I had, a little before, gone through a 
" rehearsal in Dublin, much more trying. I promised 
" that I would go to see them again whenever I could 
" escape from the parish I was going to ; and my rich 
" parishioners declared that I must (as they term it) 
" complete their conversion. I, of course, spent as 

" much time as I could with Mr. M : I parted 

" with him on Saturday morning ; and the same day 
" set out for this house, in rather a melancholy hu- 
" mour, but with a peculiarly ludicrous equipage and 
e( attendance. One waggon contained my whole for- 
" tune and family, (with the exception of a cow, 
" which was driven along-side of the waggon,) and 
" its contents were two large trunks, a bed and its 
" appendages ; and on the top of these, which were 
"■ piled up so as to make a very commanding appear- 
" ance, sat a woman (my future housekeeper) and her 
" three children, and by their side stood a calf of 
u three weeks old, which has lately become an inmate 
" in my family* 

" I am at present living in this house, where I am 
" treated with the kindest hospitality ; but expect 
u in about a week to be established in my new abode, 
" and to enter upon all the awful cares of a family 
u man. Indeed, I go down there every day, as it is, 
" and give directions with as knowing an air as the 
" best manager among them, lest any should detect 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 1 1 7 

" my ignorance. I preached last Sunday in this 
" church ; and whatever intercourse has yet taken 
" place between me and my parishioners, seems to 
" promise a good understanding between us. But I 
H want friends — friends — and give my most affec- 
" tionate remembrance to all of them that you meet. 

" Yours, &c. 
« C. W." 



Castle Caulfield, Oct. 20th, 1818. 



" I should have complied with your request sooner, 
" of writing to assure you that I was not offended at 
<( your delay, if I did not conceive that you possessed 
(i a very comfortable degree of well-grounded assurance 
u upon the point already. I had accounted for your 
" delay by imagining some of its causes, before I re- 
'* ceived your chapter of accidents. However, do not 
" for the future conceal any disaster or misfortune 
" from me while it is in progress, nor wait until it is 
" brought to a close. It is a slovenly way of treating 
" a friend, only to invite him to rejoice in the victory, 
" without giving him a share in the perils through 
u which it is achieved. 

" I have had no such signal adventures to commu- 
" nicate. Alas ! I have no disasters now to diversify 
" my life, not having many of those enjoyments which 
" render men obnoxious to them, except when my 
" foot sinks up to the ancle in a bog, as I am looking 



118 REMAINS OF 

" for a stray sheep. My life is now nearly made up 
" of visits to my parishioners, both sick and in health. 
" Notwithstanding, the parish is so large, that I have 
" yet to form an acquaintance with a very formidable 
" number of them. The parish and I have become 
« very good friends : the congregation has increased, 
" and the Presbyterians sometimes pay me a visit. 
" There is a great number of Methodists in the part 
" of the parish surrounding the village, who are many 
" of them very worthy people, and among the most 
" regular attendants upon the church. With many 
" of my flock I live upon affectionate terms. There 
" is a fair proportion of religious men amongst them, 
" with a due allowance of profligates. None of them 
" rise so high as the class of gentlemen, but there is a 
"■ good number of a very respectable description. I 
" am particularly attentive to the school : there, in 
" fact, I think most good can be done ; and, besides 
" the obvious advantages, it is a means of conciliating 
" all sects of Christians, by taking an interest in the 
C( welfare of their children. 

" Our Sunday-school is very large, and is attended 
" by the Roman Catholics and Presbyterians : the day 
" is never a Sabbath to me ; however, it is the kind 
cc of labour that is best repaid, for you always find 
" that some progress is made, some fruit soon pro- 
u duced ; whereas your labours with the old and the 
i( adult often fail of producing any effect, and, at the 
" best, it is in general latent and gradual. 

" Yours, &c. 
« C. W." 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 1 1 9 

Castle Caulfield, April 27, 1819. 
u MY DEAR 

* * * " My congregation is much in- 
" creased, and does not seem inclined to diminish ; 
" and there is a degree of piety in some of the highest 
" orders of people in this county and the county Ar- 
" magh, and a degree of propriety in others,, that 
Ci makes them alive to the conduct of clergymen., and 
" active in their inquiries respecting them. I never 
" knew before, that a humble curate (a word that 
" seems to imply the very essence of obscurity) was 
" so much a public character as I find he is, or should 
" be, in the North, where the number of Protestants 
" of different classes seems to have kept religion more 
" alive than in any other part. 

" An event in my parish that should not be 
" omitted, is the vestry. Some false and industrious 
" reports had been spread respecting the object that 

« anc [ I h a( } in view, in raising money for the 

u foundation of the school we had in contemplation ; 
" and a great number of people came for the purpose 
u of voting against us. You, who know me, may 
" judge of my anxiety at the prospect of having to 
" fight, where I came to preach peace and charity, 
" and my apprehension of falling out with Presby- 
" terians, whom I feel desirous of conciliating, and 
" with whom I have been on the most friendly foot- 
" ing. At length the day arrived, when I made a 
" speech, clearing away all misrepresentations, and 
" stating the exertions I had made. I was seconded 



120 REMAINS OF 

" very ably by ; and the consequence was a 

u most cordial and unanimous grant of 140/. with 
" ' long life to you, Mr. Wolfe, and long may you reign 
" over us !' The good feeling that reigned throughout 
" the whole, really made up one of the most gratify- 
" ing scenes I have witnessed for a long time. 

" Yours, &c. 

« C. W " 

The following letter gives an affecting account of 
the death of a valued friend, to whom he had lately 
become particularly attached, the Rev. Dr. Meredith, 
formerly a fellow of Trinity College, Dublin, and then 
rector of Ardtrea. He was esteemed one of the most 
distinguished scholars in the university to which he 
belonged. His genius for mathematical acquirements 
especially, was universally allowed to be of the first 
order ; and his qualifications as a public examiner and 
lecturer were so eminent, as to render his early retire- 
ment from the duties of a fellowship a serious loss to 
the college. Of our author's talents he entertained 
the highest opinion ; and his congeniality of disposi- 
tion soon led him to appreciate fully the still higher 
qualities of his heart. 

Castle Caulfield, May 4th, 1819. 
" MY DEAR 

" I am just come from the house of mourning ! 

" Last night I helped to lay poor M in his coffin, 

" and followed him this morning to his grave. The 



THE REV. C, WOLFE. 121 

" visitation was truly awful. Last Tuesday (this 
" day week) he was struck to the ground by a fit of 
" apoplexy,, and from that moment until the hour of 
" his death, on Sunday evening, he never articulated. 
" I did not hear of his danger until Sunday evening, 
" and yesterday morning I ran ten miles, like a mad- 
" man, and was only in time to see his dead body. It 
" will be a cruel and bitter thought to me for many 
" a day, that I had not one farewell from him while 

" he was on the brink of the world. Oh ! one of 

<c my heart-strings is broken ! the only way I have of 
" describing my attachment to that man, is by telling 

" you, that next to you and D , he was the per- 

" son in whose society I took the greatest delight. A 
" visit to Ardtrea was often in prospect, to sustain 
fi me in many of my cheerless labours. My gems are 
u falling away ; but I do hope and trust, it is because 

" ' God is making up his jewels/ Dr. M was 

" a man of a truly Christian temper of mind. We 
" used naturally to fall upon religious subjects ; and 
" I now revert, with peculiar gratification, to the 
" cordiality with which c we took sweet counsel to- 
" gether' upon those topics. You know that he was 
iC possessed of the first and most distinguishing cha- 
" racteristics of a Christian disposition, humility. He 

" preached the Sunday before for , and the ser- 

" mon wa& unusually solemn and impressive, and in 
" the true spirit of the Gospel. Indeed, from several 
" circumstances, he seems to have had some strange 
" presentiments of what was to happen. His air and 



122 EEMAINS OF 

" look some time before his dissolution had, as 

" told me, an expression of the most awful and pro- 
66 found devotion. * * 

" Yours, &c. 

« C. W ." 



On his return after another visit to Dublin, he 
thus writes. 

Castle Caulfield, Jan. 19th, 1820. 



c< As it was the irksomeness of making a long apo- 
Ci logy at the beginning of my letter, that has for the 
" last week deterred me from writing to you, I beg 
u leave to remove the obstacle altogether, and proceed 
" to business, although you will find an apology in 
" the course of the entertainment. You may remem- 
" ber the blunder that was said to have been com- 
" mitted by a certain historian, who had related a 
(i shipwreck that had taken place on the coast of Bo- 
" hernia : do not, however, suspect me of the same 
" ignorance of geography, when I inform you, that in 
u my voyage from Dublin to Castle Caulfield, I was 
iC shipwrecked on the coast of Monaghan : until then 
" I had always thought it an inland county ; but to 
iC my surprise, I found that half the country, between 
u this place and Ardee, was under water. The fact 
" is, a river had overflowed the road, so as to render 
" the bank undistinguishable, and the wheel went 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 123 

" down ; another step would have upset us altoge- 
** ther ; and in a few days you might have seen me 
" in the Newry paper. As it was,, it cost me a raw 
" hour between three and four in the morning, before 
" we were able to weigh anchor again. 

u Well, I was indeed highly pleased that the lea- 
u ven had been working during my absence ; for 
" though I was too late to go through the parish, and 
u give them a regular summons, I found a greater 
" number of communicants, on Christmas-day, than 
i( I think I had ever seen before in this church. Why, 
" if I had stayed away another month, no one can 
u calculate the improvement that might have been 
" effected by my absence. Another comfortable con- 
" sideration is, that there never was less duty to be 
cr done in the parish than while I was away, and never 
" more than since I returned. The very day after 
" my return I was summoned to see a Presbyterian, 
" and between them and my own people I have had 
" scarcely any rest ; and I assure you this has been 
u the cause of my taciturnity. I do not think I have 
u ever been so free from even the affectation of a 
u cough, as since I returned. Long life to flannels 
cc and comfortables ! and a long life to these who be- 
(i stow them, (' a long life — even for ever !') 

" My school, as I had anticipated, has declined 
" during the severity of the winter ; but I expect it 
" to revive with the spring, according to the course 
(C of nature. However, I have some fears that the 



124 KEMAINS OF 

" Pope's letter will prove a frost — a killing frost. I 
" should not be very much surprised to find it a 
" forgery. 

" Yours, &c. 

* C. W " 

The sphere of duty in which Mr. W. was engaged,, 
was extensive and laborious. A large portion of the 
parish was situated in a wild hilly country, abound- 
ing in bogs and trackless wastes ; and the population 
was so scattered, that it was a work of no ordinary 
difficulty to keep up that intercourse with his flock, 
upon which the success of a Christian minister so 
much depends. When he entered upon his work, he 
found the church rather thinly attended; but in a 
short time the effects of his constant zeal, his im- 
pressive style of preaching, and his daily and affec- 
tionate converse with his parishioners, were visible in 
the crowded and attentive congregations which began 
to gather round him. 

The number of those who soon became regular at- 
tendants at the holy communion, was so great, as to 
exceed the whole ordinary congregation at the com- 
mencement of his ministry. 

Amongst his constant hearers were many of the 
Presbyterians, who seemed much attracted by the 
earnestness of his devotion in reading the Liturgy — 
the energy of his appeals, and the general simplicity 
of his life ; and such was the respect they began to 
feel towards him, that they frequently sent for him to 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 125 

administer spiritual comfort and support to them in 
the trying hour of sickness, and at the approach of 
death. 

A large portion of the Protestants in his parish 
were of that denomination; and no small number 
were of the class of Wesleyan Methodists. Though 
differing on many points from these two bodies of 
Christians, he however maintained with them the 
most friendly intercourse, and entered familiarly into 
discussion on the subjects upon which they were at 
issue with him. 

There was nothing in the course of his duties as a 
clergyman (as he himself declared) which he found 
more difficult and trying at first, than how to discover 
and pursue the best mode of dealing with the nu- 
merous conscientious Dissenters in his parish, and 
especially with the Wesleyan Methodists, who claim 
connexion with the Church of England. While he 
lamented their errors, he revered their piety ; and at 
length succeeded beyond his hopes in softening their 
prejudices and conciliating their good will. This he 
effected by taking care, in his visits amongst them, to 
dwell particularly upon the grand and vital truths in 
which he mainly agreed with them, and, above all, 
by a patience of contradiction (yet without a surrender 
or compromise of opinion) on the points upon which 
they differed. It is a curious fact, that some of the 
Methodists, on a few occasions, sought to put his 
Christian character to the test by purposely using 
harsh and humiliating expressions towards him in 



126 REMAINS OF 

their conversations upon the nature of religion. This 
strange mode of inquisition he was enabled to bear 
with the meekness of a child ; and some of them after- 
wards assured him, that they considered the temper 
with which such a trial is endured as a leading crite- 
rion of true conversion, and were happy to find in him 
so unequivocal proof of a regenerate spirit. 

They soon learned to value his instructions as a 
Christian minister, though conveyed in a manner dif- 
ferent from what they usually heard, and divested of 
peculiarities which they habitually associated with 
the very essence of the Gospel. He says himself — 
" I am here between Methodists and Calvinists (or 
" Presbyterians), and I have preached to both in the 
" church, and conversed with both in the cottage ; and 
" I have been sometimes amused to observe the awk- 
" ward surprise with which they have heard me insist 
" upon the great doctrines, without bringing in their 
u own peculiar tenets, or using their own technical 
" cant — the surprise with which they found that it 
" was the Gospel, and yet that it was not Calvinism 
« or Methodism/' 

From some hasty notes which he took down, it 
appears that he sometimes entered into discussion 
with them on those views by which they seemed, to 
him, to confine the process of divine grace in the con- 
version of sinners within limits unauthorised by Scrip- 
ture. The following brief remarks (amongst others) 
show the sobriety of thought with which he entered 
into the consideration of such subjects. 






THE REV. C. WOLFE. 127 

All system-makers cramp and encumber religion, 
by telling you, that the mind of a sinner always pro- 
ceeds through certain stages; of conviction, repent- 
ance, faith, justification, &c. The mind when con- 
verted will indeed have the same sense of the nature 
of sin, of human corruption, of the want of a Re- 
deemer, &c. The end arrived at is the same; but 
the ways of arriving at it are various, according to the 
variety of dispositions upon which it has to act. Thus, 
upon a profligate, a drunkard, an extortioner, and 
upon a man of liberal, generous, independent princi- 
ples, I am sure the ways of acting are very different. 
Compare all the different instances of conversion in 
Scripture, the jailor, Lydia, Cornelius, the thief, &c. — 
But the Methodists adopt a class of converts, and de- 
duce a general rule for their particular case ; whereas, 
there seems to be no general rule in Scripture. This 
is prescribing laws to God's Holy Spirit. He seems to 
have various ways of effecting a sinner's conversion, 
and of adapting himself to different dispositions : so 
that the method of a Methodist appears unfounded, 
in assigning a certain process. 

It is no weak proof of the Christian spirit, to be 
able to recognise the loveliness and sublimity of true 
piety in the lowliest or most forbidding forms; to 
discern its excellence, though dwarfed by intellectual 
littleness, or degraded by the mean garb of ignorance ; 
to revere it, even when surrounded by the most lu- 
dicrous accompaniments. It is, on the contrary, an 



128 REMAINS OF 

index of spiritual dulness, perhaps, of mental inca- 
pacity, to undervalue or despise any form of sound 
religion, merely on account of such disadvantageous 
associations. But our author held the great truths of 
Christianity so close to his heart, that nothing could 
intervene to cloud their beauty: his spiritual taste 
and perspicacity was such, that it quickly descried, 
and (as by a magnetic attraction) embraced a kindred 
spirit, in whatever guise it appeared. It could sepa- 
rate the dross ; it could detach the grosser elements ; 
and delighted to look forward to that happy time when 
the spirit of genuine religion, however depressed by 
the meanness of the subject in which it happens to 
dwell, or disfigured by the unhappy combinations 
with which, here on earth, it may be attended, will 
assuredly shine forth in all its radiant purity and na- 
tive grandeur. 

The success of a Christian pastor depends almost 
as much on the manner as the matter of his instruc- 
tion. In this respect Mr. W. was peculiarly happy, 
especially with the lower classes of the people, who 
were much engaged by the affectionate cordiality, and 
the simple earnestness of his deportment towards 
them. In his conversations with the plain farmer or 
humble labourer, he usually laid his hands upon their 
shoulder, or caught them by the arm ; and while he 
was insinuating his arguments, or enforcing his appeals 
with all the variety of simple illustrations which a 
prolific fancy could supply, he fastened an anxious 
eye upon the countenance of the person he was ad- 



THE REV, C. WOLFE. 129 

dressing, as if eagerly awaiting some gleam of intelli- 
gence, to show that he was understood and felt. 

The solemnity, the tenderness, the energy of his 
manner, could not fail to impress upon their minds, at 
least, that his zeal for their souls was disinterested 
and sincere. 

The state of gross demoralization in which a large 
portion of the lower classes in his parish was sunk, 
rendered it necessary for him sometimes to adopt a 
style of preaching not the most consonant to his own 
feelings. His natural turn of mind would have led 
him to dwell most upon the loftier motives, the more 
tender appeals, the gentler topics of persuasion with 
which the Gospel abounds ; but the dull and stubborn 
natures which he had to encounter, frequently required 
" the terrors of the Lord" to be placed before them; 
the vices he had to overthrow called for the strongest 
weapon he could wield. He often, indeed, sought to 
win such souls unto Christ by the attractive beauties 
and the benign spirit of the Gospel ; but, alas ! 

" Leviathan is not so tamed." 

Amongst the people whom he had to address he found 
drunkenness and impurity, and their base kindred 
vices, lamentably prevalent; and therefore he felt it 
necessary to stigmatise such practices in the plainest 
terms; he could not find approach to minds of so 
coarse an order, without frequently arraying against 
them the most awful denunciations of Divine Justice. 
He seldom had his sermons fully written out and 

K 



130 REMAINS OF 

prepared for delivery ; yet this arose not from any 
dearth of mental resources, much less from confidence 
or neglect. It arose from an intense feeling of the 
awful responsibility of the duty. His mind was not 
only impressed, but agitated, by the sense that he 
was " as a dying man speaking to dying men :" and 
the solicitude he felt as to the choice of his subject, 
the topics best suited to his purpose, the most lively 
and practical manner in which they might be pre- 
sented, was the real cause which usually delayed his 
full preparation. He knew the vast importance of 
that brief space of time during which a minister is 
permitted to address his flock ; and he was fearful lest 
an idle or unprofitable word should escape his lips, or 
lest those moments which are so pregnant with the 
concerns of eternity should be squandered away in 
vague harangue or barren discussion. He was never 
satisfied with first thoughts ; he revolved them over 
and over, with the hope that others more suitable, 
more striking, more perspicuous, might present them- 
selves to his mind; and thus he had seldom more 
than half his sermon committed to paper when the 
time arrived for its delivery. However, his mind was 
so fully impregnated with his subject, and his com- 
mand of language so prompt, that he never was at a 
loss to complete in the pulpit what he had left un- 
finished at his desk.* 

* This appearance of extemporaneous preaching brought 
him into much favour with the good Presbyterians and Me- 
thodists, who nocked to hear him. Some of them were indeed 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 131 

He had no temptation to a vain display of argu- 
mentative skill, or rhetorical accomplishments, or the 
mere graces of composition, in presence of the con- 
gregation he had to address ; and indeed he had at- 
tained such an elevation of mind and purity of heart, 
as to stand above the reach of such a snare in any si- 
tuation. He did not despise such things; he could 
appreciate their value, and make them tributary to 
the single object of his ministry. He seemed fully 
sensible of the advantage and necessity of a chaste 
embellishment of style, such as is recommended by 
Augustine, who says, that a sermon is perfect in this 
respect, when " nee inornata relinquitur, nee indecen- 
ter ornatur." He availed himself also of the powers 
of a poetic and vivid imagination, not so much to 
adorn or beautify, as to illustrate and enforce his sub- 
ject; to gain entrance into the understanding, and 
take the passions by surprise. 

During the year that the typhus fever raged most 
violently in the north of Ireland, his neighbourhood 
was much afflicted with the disease ; and thus the 
important duty of visiting the sick (which to him was 
always a work of most anxious solicitude) was vastly 
increased; and he accordingly applied himself with 
indefatigable zeal in every quarter of his extended 
parish, in administering temporal and spiritual aid to 
his poor flock. In the discharge of such duties he ex- 
posed himself to frequent colds ; and his disregard of 

so pleased with his manner, as to say, " he would almost do 
for a meeting minister. 



132 REMAINS OF 

all precaution, and of the ordinary comforts of life to 
which he had been accustomed, soon, unhappily, con- 
firmed a consumptive tendency in his constitution, of 
which some symptoms appeared when in college. His 
frame was robust, and his general health usually 
strong ; but an habitual cough, of which he himself 
seemed almost unconscious, often excited the appre- 
hensions of his friends ; and at length, in the spring 
of 1821, the complaint of which it seemed the fore- 
runner began to make manifest inroads upon his con- 
stitution. No arguments, however, could for a long 
time dissuade him from his usual work. So little did 
he himself regard the fatal symptoms, that he could 
not be prevailed upon to relax his parochial labours. 
At length, however, his altered looks and other unfa- 
vourable symptoms appeared so alarming, that some 
of his most respectable parishioners wrote to his friends 
in Dublin to urge them to use their influence in per- 
suading him to retire for awhile from his arduous 
duties, and to have the best medical advice for him 
without further delay. But such was the anxiety he 
felt for his parish, and so little conscious did he seem 
of the declining state of his health, that no entreaties 
could avail. 

The repeated accounts of his sinking health at last 
impelled the friend who now feebly attempts this 
humble record of his worth, to set off at once to visit 
him, and to use all his influence to induce him to 
submit to what appeared so plainly the will of Pro- 
vidence, and to suspend his labours until his strength 






THE REV. C. WOLFE. 133 

should be sufficiently recruited to resume them with 
renewed vigour. In the mean time (about the middle 
of May 1821) he had been hurried off to Scotland by 
the importunate entreaties of a kind and respected 
brother-clergyman in his neighbourhood, in order to 
consult a physician celebrated for his skill in such 
cases. On his way to Edinburgh he happened to fall 
in with a deputation from the Irish Tract-society, 
who were going to that city to hold a meeting for the 
promotion of their important objects. Notwithstand- 
ing the languor of his frame, and the irritation of a 
harassing cough, he was prevailed upon to exert his 
eloquence in this interesting cause. In some of the 
speeches made upon that occasion he thought that the 
dark side of the character of his countrymen had been 
strongly exhibited, while the brighter part was almost 
entirely kept out of view. With characteristic feel- 
ing, he stood up to present the whole image, with all 
its beauties as well as its defects. 

His address was taken down in short-hand, and 
submitted to him for a hurried correction as he was 
stepping into his carriage. The following outline 
which was preserved may appear worth insertion. 

SPEECH BEFORE A MEETING OF THE IRISH 
TRACT-SOCIETY, EDINBURGH, MAY 1821. 

SIR, 

I have not the vanity to imagine that the words of 
an obscure individual, who is a total stranger to al- 
most all those whom he addresses, and, except within 



134 REMAINS OF 

a few days, a stranger to the country which they 
inhabit, could produce any considerable effect in ex- 
citing you to the performance of your duty, or in 
recommending the object which you are assembled to 
promote. 

I only rise to express my thanks on the part of 
that country which I should find it impossible to love 
and value as I ought, without also regarding with af- 
fection that country which has proved itself her bene- 
factor. I confess that I perform this office with shame 
and mortification : I should have wished to have seen 
my country standing forth in the proud character of 
a benefactress, and taking her rank amongst those 
whose privilege it is " to give gifts unto men," instead 
of appearing in the attitude of a suppliant, with a pe- 
tition in her hand. Perhaps it is right that these 
proud feelings should be humbled; perhaps the two 
countries thus occupy that relative situation which 
they are best qualified to fill; — perhaps Scotland is 
formed to yield assistance ; but assuredly there is in 
Ireland all the heart to return it. The Irish cha- 
racter seems to possess a greater capability either o 
good or of evil than that of any other nation upon the 
face of the globe. There is a quickness of intellect, a 
vivacity of fancy, a restlessness of curiosity, and a 
warmth of heart, that can be turned either to the very 
best or the very worst of purposes, and form the ele- 
ments either of the most exalted or the most degraded 
of rational beings. They in some degree resemble in 
their effects the power and versatility of fire, that 



: 




THE REV* C. WOLFE. 135 

sometimes bursts from the volcano, and overflows and 
desolates the whole scene by which it is surrounded ; 
that is sometimes applied by the incendiary to the 
house where, the family are sleeping at midnight, and 
consumes them in their beds; or can be turned by 
powerful and complicated machinery to the service of 
man ; that can be made to rise in incense before the 
throne of God in heaven. And thus also these ele- 
ments, when either left to themselves, or perverted 
by designing and wicked men, can form the most 
atrocious character that ever moved upon the face of 
the earth ; but if the light of the Gospel of Jesus 
Christ shines in upon them, they compose the most 
illustrious specimen of an exalted and truly spiritual 
Christian that perhaps we shall here be permitted to 
behold. This is not mere theory and fond speculation : 
we have proofs of both. Alas ! for the first we have 
only to appeal to the melancholy statements of de- 
pravity which you have just heard ; and for the se- 
cond, we have only to appeal to the state of religion 
in Ireland at this instant : for, sir, in Ireland (i the 
winter is past, and the spring is begun ;" and there is, 
in the religious aspect of the country, an appearance 
of growth, a promise and anticipation almost more de- 
lightful than the fulfilment. There is a spiritual glow 
throughout the land ; and when the power of religious 
truth acts upon a warm and generous heart, and sends 
all its energy in one direction, it produces a beautiful 
specimen of living and devoted Christianity ; and we 
are spared in Ireland, probably more than in any 



136 REMAINS OF 

other country, that most tremendous of all moral 
spectacles, more tremendous than even the debauchee 
plunging into sensuality — the spectacle of a man with 
the light of the Gospel in his head, without its warmth 
in his heart. From this view of the Irish character, 
it is obvious that they require both unceasing atten- 
tion, and the greatest delicacy in the treatment. Such 
a people must have constant food for the mind, food 
for the fancy, food for the affections : if it is not given, 
they will find it for themselves; and therefore both 
great liberality and great judgment are necessary in 
supplying it. I can testify, from actual observation, 
to the insatiable avidity with which tracts are sought, 
and the deep interest which is excited in those who 
peruse them. We trust, then, the good work will go 
on, and that Scotland will rejoice to see the sun of 
Ireland arise; and, though it may not be given to 
this generation to behold it, yet our posterity will see 
the day, when Ireland shall rise from the posture of 
a suppliant, and take her station by the side of Scot- 
land. 



On his return from Scotland, the writer met him 
a friend's house within a few miles of his own re- 
sidence; and on the following Sunday, accompanied 
him through the principal part of his parish to the 
church; and never can he forget the scene he wit- 
nessed as they drove together along the road, and 
through the village. It must give a more lively idea 
of his character and conduct as a parish clergyman 



at 






THE REV. C. WOLFE. 137 

than any laboured delineation, or than a mere detail 
of particular facts. As he quickly passed by, all the 
poor people and children ran out to their cabin-doors 
to welcome him, with looks and expressions of the 
most ardent affection, and with all that wild devotion 
of gratitude so characteristic of the Irish peasantry. 
Many fell upon their knees invoking blessings upon 
him; and long after they were out of hearing, they 
remained in the same attitude, showing by their ges- 
tures that they were still offering up prayers for him ; 
and some even followed the carriage a long distance, 
making the most anxious inquiries about his health. 
He was sensibly moved by this manifestation of feel- 
ing, and met it with all that heartiness of expression, 
and that affectionate simplicity of manner, which 
made him as much an object of love, as his exalted 
virtues rendered him an object of respect. The inti- 
mate knowledge he seemed to have acquired of all 
their domestic histories, appeared from the short but 
significant inquiries he made of each individual as he 
was hurried along ; while, at the same time, he gave 
a rapid sketch of the particular characters of several 
who presented themselves — pointing to one with a sigh, 
and to another with looks of fond congratulation. It 
was, indeed, impossible to behold a scene like this 
(which can scarcely be described) without the deepest 
but most pleasing emotions. It seemed to realise the 
often-imagined picture of a primitive minister of the 
Gospel of Christ, living in the hearts of his flock, 
" willing to spend, and to be spent upon them," and 



138 KEMAINS OF 

enjoying the happy interchange of mutual affection. 
It clearly showed the kind of intercourse that habitu- 
ally existed between him and his parishioners; and 
afforded a pleasing proof, that a faithful and firm dis- 
charge of duty, when accompanied by kindly sympa- 
thies and gracious manners, can scarcely fail to gain 
the hearts of the humbler ranks of the people. 

It can scarcely be a matter of surprise that he should 
feel much reluctance in leaving a station where his 
ministry appeared to be so useful and acceptable ; and 
accordingly, though peremptorily required by the phy- 
sician he had just consulted, to retire for some time 
from all clerical duties, it was with difficulty he could 
be dislodged from his post, and forced away to Dublin, 
where most of his friends resided. 

It was hoped that timely relaxation from duty, 
and a change in his mode of living to what he had 
been originally accustomed, and suitable to the present 
delicate state of his health, might avert the fatal 
disease with which he was threatened. The habits 
of his life, while he resided on his cure, were in every 
respect calculated to confirm his constitutional ten- 
dency to consumption. He seldom thought of pro- 
viding a regular meal; and his humble cottage exhi- 
bited every appearance of the neglect of the ordinary 
comforts of life. A few straggling rush-bottomed 
chairs, piled up with his books, a small rickety table 
before the fire-place, covered with parish memoranda, 
and two trunks containing all his papers — serving at 
the same time to cover the broken parts of the floor, 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 139 

— constituted all the furniture of his Batting-room. 

The mouldy walls of the closet in which he slept were 
hanging with loose folds of damp paper ; and between 
this wretched cell and his parlour was the kitchen, 
which was occupied by the disbanded soldier, his 
wife, and their numerous brood of children, who had 
migrated with him from his first quarters, and seemed 
now in full possession of the whole concern, entertain- 
ing him merely as a lodger, and usurping the entire 
disposal of his small plot of ground, as the absolute 
lords of the soil. 

After he left this comfortless home, he resigned 
himself entirely to the disposal of his family. Though 
his malady seemed to increase, and his frame to be- 
come more emaciated, still his natural spirits and 
mental elasticity continued unimpaired, — so much so, 
that he continued to preach occasionally in Dublin 
with his usual energy, until the friendly physician to 
whom he had now submitted his case absolutely for- 
bade all present exercise of clerical duties. 

His anxiety about the provision ibr his duties in 
his parish, seemed for a long time materially to 
interrupt every enjoyment which might tend to his 
recovery. Indeed, his feelings were so alive to the 
subject, that he could scarcely be satisfied with any 
arrangement which his kind clerical friends could 
make for him, under conviction that no occasional 
deputy can fully fill the place of the regular mi- 
nister of the parish ; and unhappily the advanced 
age and infirmities of his rector rendered any exer- 



140 REMAINS OF 

tions on his part impracticable. But he shall speak 
for himself. 

Dublin, May 28th, 1821. 
" MY DEAR MRS. 

" I did not wish to write until something decisive 
" had occurred ; and at length the die is cast : Doc- 

" tor has, in fact, stripped me of my gown. You 

" may conceive me obstinate, when I confess that 
u even his opinion has not yet, in my mind, justified 
u the alarm of my friends, or convinced me of my 
" danger ; but however, it has done what is more es- 
' ' sential and more satisfactory ; it has shown me the 
" course which Providence directs me to take, and 
cc this is the only question for me to decide.; the rest 
" is in better hands. The dread I felt of choosing for 
u myself, instead of running the race that is set before 
" me, is removed ; and I now feel myself obliged to 
£C resign, at least for a season, the trust which was re- 
" posed in me. What the ultimate event may be, 
" and whether I shall ever be again permitted to ex- 
" ercise my ministry in Castle Caulfield, I cannot 
(e foresee ; and although I am thus replaced amongst 
" my oldest friends, and where natural inclination 
" would lead me, I cannot but look with the liveliest 
" regret at the possibility of never returning to a 
" parish to which I was bound, for three years, by 
" the most solemn ties, and to a family in which I 
<k have experienced the most unwearied kindness and 
" affection. I do not conceal from you the great 






THE BEV. C. WOLFE. 141 

" anxiety I feel that my successor, whether he is to 
" be temporary or permanent, may be an active, 
" spiritual minister. I do not know indeed that any 
<c circumstance would give me more pain than that 
" my poor flock should fall into the hands of a care- 
" less, worldly-minded pastor. * * * 

" Yours, &c. 

« C. W ." 



Dublin, June 14th, 1821. 
" MY DEAR 

cc Although I have nothing conclusive to relate, I 
fC feel as if, in this state of uncertainty, my silence 
- c would look like neglect. Having failed in my at- 
u tempts to procure a temporary substitute, and being 
Ci absolutely withheld by my_ friends from returning, 
<e I at length came to the resolution of resigning the 
" trust reposed in me. However painful it might be 
C£ to my feelings, I could no longer reconcile it to my- 
Ci self to leave the parish in such a state of disorder 
" and confusion. I know that wherever there is not 
cc a minister resident in the parish, every thing is at 
" a stand ; the sick and the schools are not attended 
" to, and those that are in health are e left to walk 
" in their own ways/ I could not divest myself of 
" a sense of responsibility for all these consequences. 

" Actuated by these motives, I waited upon the 
" primate, and tendered my resignation. He hesi- 
u tated to accept it, and urged me to continue my 



142 REMAINS OF 

" search for a substitute. * ** * As soon as any 
" thing is determined on, I shall let you know. 

iC Yours, &c. 

" c. wr 



Blackhall, June 24th, 1821. 
" MY DEAR 

* * " If I had known, at the com- 
" mencement of this business, that matters would 
" have continued so long in a state of uncertainty, 
Ci I would have returned to my post at all hazards. 
Ci I felt so much distress, not only at the deserted 
" state of my parish, but also at the trouble and em- 
" barrassment that I have occasioned to my friends, 
" that I made three attempts to resign, in which I 
" failed. A very little thing would make me break 
"jail, for I feel myself strong enough for such an un- 
" dertaking ; but I am not allowed to have an opinion 
*' upon this subject : therefore it is that I generally 
" say little about it in my letters. When any of my 
" poor people inquire for me, you may tell them that 
" nothing would injure my health more than to hear 
" that my flock was scattered. I am very happy to 
" hear so favourable an account of the parish, and 
" Sunday-school ; for the latter of which, I know to 
" whom I am principally indebted. 

" I do indeed lament that I am not at hand when 
" you fancy I could minister consolation ; but I know, 
" by experience, that God often removes from us every 
" earthly support, in order to draw us nearer to him- 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 143 

" self, and to prevent us from trusting to the creature 
" rather than . the Creator ; and he sometimes puts 
" e lover and friend far from us, and removes our ac- 
" quaintance out of sight/ in order that he may break 
" through all disguises, and reveal himself as our all- 
" sufficient Friend. Give my blessing and my most 

" affectionate regards to Mrs. ; remember me to 

" each and all at Mr. 's. 

" Yours, &c. 

" C. W." 



Black Rock, June 13th, 1821. 
u DEAR SIR, 

u I regret very much, that although you have been 
" a considerable time in the neighbourhood of Castle 
u Caulfield, I am able to address you only by letter. 
" I assure you it was fully my intention to have re- 
" turned your visit ; but the duties of an extensive 
" parish, which I had not been able to reduce into 
(i any kind of system, and which were rendered more 
" laborious by the want of a horse, repeatedly pre- 
u vented me from fulfilling it. Indeed, the occasion 
" of the present letter is in some degree a proof. The 
" irregularity of my movements in my parish produced 
" a degree of inattention to my health, and gave rise 
" to some symptoms of an attack upon my lungs, 
" which have alarmed my friends, and induced them 
" to take me altogether out of my own hands, and 
" place me under the jurisdiction of a physician, who 
i( has actually stripped me of my gown, and interdict- 



144 REMAINS OF 

" ed me, under pain of a consumption, from the per- 
c( formance of any clerical duty for a very considerable 
" time, I have made several unavailing attempts to 
" procure a temporary substitute ; and being unwilling 
" to leave my poor flock any longer without a shep- 
" herd, I waited upon the primate, and tendered my 
cc resignation, but he hesitated to accept it. 

cc My chief object is to provide an active and zea- 
iC lous minister for a parish in whose spiritual welfare 
" I cannot cease to feel a lively interest. 

" Yours, &c. 

« C, W." 



" DEAR SIR, 

* * * « With respect to catechising the child- 
" ren, there is a lamentable deficiency, arising from 
iC a difficulty that I found it more easy to discover 
" than to remove. In a very large parish, particular- 
" ly where they are not collected in any considerable 
" numbers in a town, it is impossible that any one 
u day or any one place will suffice. My desire of 
" devising a method that would fully meet the want, 
" and which I trusted would suggest itself upon a 
" closer acquaintance with the parish, induced me to 
" delay the adoption of some that might have been of 
u partial service : and the wish of effecting more than 
kC perhaps could be done, prevented me from doing all 
" that might have been done ; so that even on Sun- 
" days I did not make the catechising as distinct from 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 145 

" the business of the Sunday-school as I ought. I 
<c shall be very happy, if I am ever to succeed you, 
" to follow any plan or improvement that you may 
" introduce. * * * * 

" I have been occupied and agitated by preparations 
" for my departure for the Continent, and inquiries 
" as to the best destination for invalids, which have 
" not yet been satisfactorily answered ; these, and my 
" removal to town, where I have become the victim 
" of leeches and blisters, have prevented me from un- 
u dertaking an answer to your letter, which could not 
" be done extempore, as I fear you will perceive by 
" the length of this epistle. 

" Yours, &c. 

« C. W " 

For some months after his removal from his parish, 
his health appeared to fluctuate, as is sometimes the 
case at the commencement of such complaints as his ; 
and it was considered necessary, towards the approach 
of winter, that he should go to the South of France, 
as the most probable means of averting from him the 
threatened malady. In his attempt to reach Bour- 
deaux, he was twice driven back to Holyhead by 
violent and adverse gales, and suffered so much from 
the effects, that it was deemed prudent to abandon 
the plan, and settle near Exeter during the winter and 
ensuing spring. From this place his next letters are 
written. 



146 REMAINS OF 

Exeter, Feb. 18th, 1822. 



" Welcome once more ! * I feel as if we had a 
? second parting when we last exchanged letters ; and 
" now that we once more renew a correspondence, 
iC it looks like a meeting after a long separation. But 
" you may be assured that neither you nor yours 
u were forgotten by me at those times when I knew 
" you would most wish to be remembered : those sea- 
Ci sons at which, I trust, I am remembered by you all. 
" I will not trouble you with all the tedious reasons for 
" my silence ; the silence itself was tedious enough. 
u Suffice it to say that a man may be very idle, and 
" have no leisure, especially no leisure of mind ; and 
u that a man's time may be in a great measure un- 
" occupied, and yet not his own, I will not tell you 
u of the length of time it takes to wind me up and 
' ' set me a-going for the day ; but I find that the 
:" toilette of an invalid is as long and as troublesome 
(e as that of a duchess, — and perhaps the whole day 
u often spent with little more profit. It will be suffi- 
u cient to tell you, that I can scarcely make out an 
" hour and a half a day for actual study. 

" Yours, &c. 

« C. W.» 

* The remainder of the above was upon the subject of an 
offer, which had just been made to him, of the curacy of Ar- 
magh ; a post of great importance and responsibility, with 
regard to which proposal he felt the most anxious embarrass- 
ment. — Editor. 



THE KEV. C. WOLFE. 147 

Exeter ■, April 2nd, 1822. 



" If I had written to you as often as I intended it, 
" since I left Ireland, you would have been by this 
" time weary of my correspondence. Often and often 
" I have reproached myself for leaving some of my 
" best and kindest friends the least room for suspect- 
u ing me to be guilty of forgetfulness or indifference ; 
" but you have witnessed so much of those fatal 
" habits of delay and procrastination, by which I am 
u pre-eminently distinguished, that you are nat at a 
" loss to assign a cause for my silence, without being 
" reduced to the necessity of accusing me of coldness 
u and ingratitude. Indeed, from having observed my 
" sad deficiency in corresponding with the nearest 
" members of my own family, you may well say, 
" c Well ! after all, sure he Jias treated me as his 
" sister/ * * * * 

u You have heard of course from — — of our re- 
u peated attempts to reach Bourdeaux, and our re- 
■ 6 peated disappointments, having been twice driven 
" back to Holyhead. There we lived for a month in 
(i a state of anxious uncertainty, not knowing each 
" day what was to be our destination on the morrow ; 
" and when at length we arrived at this place, I re- 
" laxed into a state of lassitude and debility, and my 
" cough grew worse : however, with the blessing of 
iC God, I think my cough considerably reduced, and 
" my strength, in some degree, returning. Whatever 
iC good effect has been produced, I may attribute, 



148 REMAINS OF 

" under the Father of all mercies, to the friends whom 
" I trust I may say He has provided for me. Of the 
" unwearied and devoted affection of my sisters, who 
" accompanied me, I shall say nothing ; but the 
" Christian friends that I have found, where I ex- 
" pected to meet none but strangers, I should feel 
" myself almost guilty of ingratitude, if I did not 
" mention. 

" I am now writing under the roof of a fellow- 
". countryman, a brother Christian and a brother in 
" the ministry, who has become an excellent phy- 
" sician by sad and constant experience in his own 
u person, and who has taken me altogether under his 
" own care, and who does not allow me to move, 
<c speak, write, or think, except by special permission ; 
" and this, by the by, is the reason that this letter 
" comes limping so slowly after its predecessor, which 
(e I trust has long since reached you. Under the 
€f care of this kind physician and truly exalted Chris- 
" tian, in whose family I am almost domesticated, I 
" think I find my strength returning. — But I must 
" pass to a subject far less agreeable than this, — to 
" the curacy of Armagh. I suppose you have been 

" already informed by that it was offered me 

" by Lord L , and that, after much hesitation 

u and anxiety, I accepted it. It cannot be necessary 
u to tell you that it was altogether unsolicited ; in- 
(C deed, so much so, that I was equally surprised and 
u dismayed by the offer. I shrunk from it almost in- 
cc stinctively, when I considered not only the awful 



THE REV. C. WOLFE* 149 

" responsibility of the office itself, but the numerous 
" appendages attached to it, the chaplaincy of the 
" garrison, the chaplaincy and inspectorship of the 
c< jail, and the superintendence of several charitable 
' c institutions. It is indeed one of the very last situa- 
u tions I should choose if I consulted either my own 
u ease or emolument. 

« < Who is sufficient for these things V — It was the 
" very answer to this question that made me hesitate 
u to refuse ; for no man is sufficient for these things, 
" and yet some one must undertake them ; and I 
" feared that I should be guilty of distrusting Him 
" whose c strength is made perfect in weakness/ and 
" of consulting my own ease and convenience in pre- 
" ference to His service, if I declined it. I therefore 
u conceived it best to reply that I was willing to un- 
" dertake it ; but could not possibly name any period 
cc within which I could engage to enter upon it in 
" person ; nor could I make any exertion to obtain a 
cc substitute. I was informed in answer, that the 
" primate had approved of my nomination, and that 
ee every exertion would be made to obtain a substitute ; 
" which however is found to be more difficult than 
" was imagined, both on account of the weight of 
" duty, and the indefinite period for which he would 
u be required. If permitted to decide for myself, I 
" would have engaged to return before June ; but my 
" friends, both old and new, who have taken me al- 
" together out of my own hands, and who have me 
" completely in their power, will not allow me to 



150 REMAINS OF 

ef name any time for returning to my duties. My 

dear Mrs. , I feel it a great relief to think that 

I am writing to one who can fully enter into my 
feelings and motives; and that, in relating my 
views and conduct in this business, I am in no 
danger of being misunderstood; and surely you 
ie cannot but enter into my feelings when I convey 

" through you to Mr. the resignation of the 

" curacy of Donoughmore. Indeed, if you do not 
" give me credit for them, I am afraid it would be 
" hopeless to attempt to express them. Will you 
cc allow me to intrust you with my farewell to all my 

" friends, both at M and in the parish ? Assure 

cc Mr. and Mrs. that I shall never forget the 

" kindness and hospitality I have enjoyed under their 

" roof; and give my kindest remembrance to , 

" and my solemn blessing to all those of my flock to 
" whom you think it will be of any value : but how 

a shall I say farewell to you and Mrs. , who 

ci have indeed treated me as a brother and a son ? I 
'■' can only commend you to One who has said that 
" € . whoso doeth the will of his Father, the same is 
u his brother, and sister, and mother ;' the great 
" Shepherd of the sheep, who, unlike other shepherds, 
" will never leave or forsake them. It is painful to 
" hear that many have wandered from the fold ; but 
" there are some who, I trust, have seen and felt the 
" glory and love of Christ, and will hold fast their 
iC confidence unto the end. I hope, if I am in- 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 151 

deed ever settled in Armagh, to see you face to 
face. * * * * 

" Yours, &c. 

« C. W." 



Oswestry -, May 22nd, 1822. 
" MY DEAR MRS. 

" We are thus far on our way to poor Ireland, for 
" better for worse ; and we propose to rest here for a 
" few days, with our friends who have accompanied us. 
" My strength is, I trust, considerably improved ; but 
" my cough not considerably abated. 

" I hope soon to ascertain when I shall be able to 
" return to active duty. So much for myself! — but 
" how tremendous was the primate's death ! what a 
" thunderstroke ! the thing itself and the circum- 
" stances attending it were "sufficiently appalling, — 
cc but to us its probable consequences are most dis- 
" tressing. Poor Castle Caulfield ! what will become 
" of it now ? How the Lord seems to have dis- 
c< appointed my calculations ! but perhaps it is only 
" to show that he can do things much better his own 
" way, as he often fulfils our best desires in the man- 
" ner we least expected, in order that while he com- 
" forts he may humble us, and teach us to ascribe all 
<c the glory to him. And we should not forget, that 
" we may promote the cause as much by our prayers 
" as by our contrivances and exertions. What a pri- 
" vilege it is, and what a consolation, that we have 



152 REMAINS OF 

" One upon whom we may cast our cares ; and that 
" in our closets, when no one hears or dreams of it, 
" we may ask of the ' great Shepherd and Bishop/ 
" that he would appoint a faithful pastor over the 
" sheep that are scattered — and be heard ! At the 
" same time we should use whatever legitimate 
" means are in our reach to effect the object of our 
" prayer. 

" But this brings me to the chief subject of your 
" last letter — the wandering of your mind in prayer. 
" Perhaps the evil of our nature never displays itself 
" more fully than in our religious acts and exercises ; 
" and the more enlightened and experienced a true 
" Christian becomes, the more does he discover of the 
" sinfulness of his nature, and of the pollutions and 
" mixed motives of even his best performances. But 
" there is a gracious provision made for these. To- 
" wards the close of the 4th of Hebrews you will find, 
" e that we have not an high priest that cannot be 
' e touched with a feeling of our infirmities ; but was 
" in all points tempted like as we are, yet without 
u sin :' and, at the end of the same chapter, this is 
" again urged as a motive for coming ( boldly to the 
" throne of grace / and if you look to (I believe) the 
cc 4th chapter of Leviticus, you will see that the great 
" high priest was ' to bear the iniquity of the holy things 
i( of the people of God/ This is our encouragement 
u and consolation in approaching the throne of grace, 
" that there is One who enters into all our feelings, 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 153 

" and sympathises with us in our infirmities, and yet, 
" at the same time, is almighty to save ! This is the 
u glory of that truth — that the divine and human na- 
" ture are united in one person, and that he offers 
" our feeble and imperfect petitions with irresistible 
" energy and effect. This consideration, at the same 
" time, so far from damping our fervour in prayer, 
u or inducing us to give way to wandering thoughts 
" or coldness of feeling while engaged in it, will be an 
u additional incentive to earnestness and devotion. 
" It will, by removing fear, increase our confidence ; 
" it will kindle greater love to that gracious Inter- 
" cessor; and we shall look forward with greater 
" hope to that period when all languor and corruption 
" shall be done away. The Lord direct, and sanctify, 
u and sustain you, and crown you and yours with 
u every blessing ! 

u Yours with the sincerest affection, 

" C. W." 

After his return from Exeter, he remained during 
the summer with his friends in and near Dublin. His 
general health appeared not to have undergone any 
material change in the mean time; but his cough 
continued so violent and distressing, that he was or- 
dered to go to Bourdeaux, and back again, for the be- 
nefit of the voyage. He thus writes to a near relative, 
on his arrival there. 



154 REMAINS OF 

Bourdeaux ^ 29th August 1822. 
cc MY DEAR 

" This mornings after an anxious and boisterous 
u voyage, we cast anchor in front of Bourdeaux. 
". From Saturday night till Thursday morning we 
c< were struggling through the channel, — at one time 
". in danger of being becalmed, and at others endea- 
" vouring to make the best of violent and unfavourable 
" winds, until at length, early on Thursday, we were 
Ci swept past the Land's End by a rapid gale. Xate 
(i on the evening of the same day we came within 
€< view of the island of Ushant, and entered the for- 
" midable Bay of Biscay. It was, however, so smooth 
" and beautiful, — and the clear French sky over our 
" heads, and the warm elastic air about us, were so 
" enlivening, that the terrible bay seemed to welcome 
u and invite us ; and during the whole of Friday we 
" sailed gently and quietly along : and the deadly and 
" incessant sickness under which I had laboured until 
" then, and which I will not attempt to describe, be- 
C( gan to give way, and I almost enjoyed the scene, 
iC But on Saturday it threw off its disguise, and began 
" to appear in its real character, and we were tossed 
" and lashed furiously along, till at length, on Sunday 
" morning, after a stormy night, to our great refresh- 
" ment, we arrived at the mouth of the Garonne, 
" about sixty miles from Bourdeaux. If it had not 
" been the Lord's day, which I would gladly have 
(i spent in another way, I should have sincerely en- 
u joyed the scene, in sailing up the noblest and 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 155 

" grandest river I ever beheld. We anchored that 
" night at Pauillac, half way up the river between the 
u mouth and the city. For the first time, I slept as 
" it were upon dry land,, and rose this morning re- 
" freshed. The sail from Pauillac to Bourdeaux was 
H indeed delightful ; but the repose I now enjoy in- 
" finitely more so ; for all the passengers are gone 
iC ashore but myself, and I spend the remainder of the 
" day quietly on board the packet alone., where I shall 
" sleep to-night, and will go to-morrow early to look 
" for lodgings. My cough only appeared occasionally 
" during the voyage, and was never violent or con- 
" tinued ,* and I have been told by all the passengers 
" that there was a very remarkable improvement vi- 
" sible towards the close of the voyage. The heat is 
" very severe, but the sky very clear and beautiful. 
" I will not say any thing of the passengers, &c. as I 
cc hope this letter will not reach you much sooner 
" than myself. 

" I feel indeed that I have been most graciously 
" dealt with ; and that the same good Providence 
iC that before forbade me to go, has now gone along 
" with me. May He be with you ! 

" Yours, &c. 

" C. W" 

In less than a month he returned from Bourdeaux, 
and seemed to have derived some benefit from the 
voyage ; but this was of short continuance. The 
fatal disease which had been long apprehended proved 



156 EEMAINS OF 

to have taken full hold of his constitution : his strength 
appeared to sink fast, and his spirits to flag. The 
bounding step, which expressed a constant buoyancy 
of mind, now became slow and feeble ; his robust and 
upright figure began to droop : his marked and promi- 
nent features acquired a sharpness of form, and his 
complexion, naturally fair, assumed the pallid cast of 
wasting disease ; and all the other symptoms of con- 
sumption soon discovered themselves ; and, 

" Even when his serious eyes were lighted up 

" With kindling mirth, and from his lips distill'd 

u Words soft as dew and cheerful as the dawn, 

'* Then too I could have wept ; for on his face, 

" Eye, voice, and smile, nor less his bending frame — 

u By other cause impair *d than length of years — 

" Lay something that still turn'd the thoughtful heart 

" To melancholy dreams — dreams of decay, 

tt Of death, and burial, and the silent tomb." 

It is indeed the privilege of the Christian to look 
far above those dreary scenes, — to fasten his eye 
upon that light which burns beyond the tomb; but 
still, sometimes the sight of a dying friend will natu- 
rally turn the thoughts to the more immediate circum- 
stances of death; and this, perhaps, most of all, at 
the moment when one suddenly discerns, with a 
startled conviction, the first sure and ominous vestige 
of death upon the countenance of a beloved object. 
But faith will not dwell upon such thoughts — " such 
melancholy dreams :" it will look up with serene and 
holy confidence to " Him who is the resurrection and 



THE REV. C. WOLFE, 157 

the life;" and thus comfort itself with an unfailing 
consolation. 

About the end of November it was thought advisa- 
ble, as the last remaining hope, that he should guard 
against the severity of the winter, by removing to the 
Cove of Cork, which, by its peculiar situation, is shel- 
tered on all sides from the harsh and prevailing winds. 
Thither he was accompanied by the writer and a near 
relative to whom he was fondly attached. For a short 
time he appeared to revive a little ; and sometimes 
entered into conversation with almost his usual ani- 
mation ; but the first unfavourable change of weather 
shattered his remaining strength : his cough now be- 
came nearly incessant, and a distressing languor 
weighed down his frame. In this state he continued 
until the 21st of February 1823, upon the morning 
of which day he expired, in the 32nd year of his age. 

During the whole course of his illness (though, to- 
wards the close, apparently not unconscious of his 
danger) he never expressed any apprehensions to his 
friends, but once, that he suddenly observed a new 
symptom, to which he pointed with a look and ex- 
pression of the gentlest, calmest resignation. He 
seemed particularly on his guard against uttering a 
word which could excite the fears of the dear relative 
who clung so devotedly to him until his last moments. 
A short time before he died she ventured to disclose to 
him her long-concealed apprehensions, saying (with a 
humility like his own), that she felt she needed cor- 
rection ; and that, at last, the Lord had sent " a 



158 REMAINS OF 

" worm into her gourd." " What I" replied he, " is it 
"in afflicting me? — indeed,, I believe you love me 
" sinfully : I may, however, bless this illness if it 
" leads me to more spiritual communion with you 
" than before/' 

One night that his animal spirits were particularly 
depressed, he said to her, " I want comfort to-night \" 
and upon her reminding him of the blessings he had 
been the instrument of conveying to the souls of many 
of his nearest relatives, he faintly exclaimed, " Stop, 
stop — that is comfort enough for one night." 

It is natural for a religious mind to feel a lively in- 
terest in every record of the last illness and death of 
any eminent servant of God — to expect some happy 
evidences of triumphant faith and holy resignation in 
such a trying state — at the awful moment when all 
the vast realities of an eternal world are about to be 
disclosed to the disembodied spirit. There are some 
persons who perhaps look for such evidences chiefly in 
ardent ejaculations, in affecting expressions of self- 
humiliation, in palpable impressions of present com- 
fort, or raptures of joyful anticipation; but these may 
not be, after all, unequivocal or indispensable tests of 
the presence and power of true faith. It should not 
be forgotten how much depends upon the state of the 
animal system at such times, upon the nature of the 
complaint, or even on the peculiar constitution of the 
mind itself. As in the case of the steadfast and holy 
Christian here recorded, the disease may be such as 
to encumber the faculties of the soul by a peculiar 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 159 

pressure upon the body: the corruptible part may 
" weigh down the mind which museth on many 
things/' and thus incapacitate it for any energetic 
manifestation of its feelings. It was the nature of 
his particular malady to bring on an impressive lassi- 
tude of spirits; and he was also afflicted with a 
raking cough, which for some time before his death 
disabled him from speaking a single sentence without 
incurring a violent paroxysm. 

One interesting fact, however, may prove, with 
more certainty than a thousand rapturous expressions, 
the ascendancy of his faith in the midst of these de- 
pressing circumstances. 

On the day before his dissolution, the medical gen- 
tleman who attended him felt it his duty to apprise 
him of his immediate danger, and expressed himself 
thus : " Your mind, sir, seems to be so raised above 
" this world, that I need not fear to communicate to 
" you my candid opinion of your state." " Yes, sir," 
replied he, u I trust I have been learning to live above 
the world :" and he then made some impressive ob- 
servations on the ground of his own hopes ; and hav- 
ing afterwards heard that they had a favourable effect, 
he entered more fully into the subject with him on his 
next visit, and continued speaking for an hour, in 
such a convincing, affecting, and solemn strain, (and 
this at a time when he seemed incapable of uttering 
a single sentence,) that the physician, on retiring to 
the adjoining room, threw himself on the sofa, in tears, 
exclaiming, " There is something superhuman about 



160 REMAINS OF 

" that man : it is astonishing to see such a mind in a 
" body so wasted ; such mental vigour in a poor 
" frame dropping into the grave I" 

Let not then the cold sceptic (to maintain a pre- 
carious theory on uncertain observations) seek to de- 
grade his own nature, in the face of facts like this, by 
identifying the imperishable soul with its frail tene- 
ment. There are moments, he may see, at which 
that divine and immaterial principle can throw off the 
pressure of its earthly encumbrance, even when it ap- 
pears to slumber in a deadly torpor. When its own 
appropriate excitements are presented to it, it can 
" burst its cerements/' and rise superior to the ruins 
amidst which it seems to be buried. 

This incident is abundantly sufficient to indicate 
the strength of principle and the ardour of feeling 
which may possess the soul at a time when, perhaps, 
it finds no utterance. His feelings indeed appeared 
too deep for superficial expressions. The state of mind 
towards which he seemed to aspire, was what the ex- 
cellent Henry Martin preferred above all others, " a 
sweet and holy seriousness ;" and indeed he seemed 
to have attained it. His was a calm serenity, a pro- 
found thoughtfulness, a retired communion with his 
God, which could not, probably, vent itself in verbal 
ebullitions; but when an opportunity of doing good 
to the soul of a fellow-sinner presented itself, he 
showed how strongly he felt the Gospel to be " the 
power of salvation to his own soul," by his zeal to 
impart it to another. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 161 

It is important thus to ?r~ that true religion con- 
not so much in the constant fervour of the feel- 
ings, as in a fixedness of principle, in the intelligent, 
"innate choice ::' the will; that the one may 
fluctuate while the other remains steadfast and im- 
moveable. 

From the time that Mr. W. came to Cove he seem- 
ed scarcelv to relish anv subject ::" conversation but 

l C i. 

that which bore upon what is, in truth, at all times 
i: the one thing needful." 

His Bible was his chief companion; he seemed 
also deeply interested in Worthingtons treatise on 
" Self-resignation ;" and occasionally read with satis- 

ion " Omicron s Letters, bv the Rev. J. Xewton." 

Upon the subject of religion he was always pe- 
culiarly indisposed to controversy. He delighted to 
- the great principles, to embrace the vital truths ; 
and read with pleasure any author in whose writings 
he could find them: he valued as brethren all who 
maintained them, and diligently sought to co-operate 
with them u in their works and labours of love." His 
own views seemed not to have undergone anv change 
from the time of his ordination; but they became 
more and more vivid, and, of course, more influential 
upon his principles and affections. 

During: the last few davs of his life, when his suf- 
ame more distressing, his constant ex- 
pression was, •'•' This light affliction, this light af- 
fliction !'"'' and when the awful crisis drew near, he 
still maintained the same sweet spirit of resignation. 

M 



162 BEMAINS OF 

Even then he showed an instance of that thoughtful 
benevolence, that amiable tenderness of feeling, which 
formed a striking trait in his character : — he expressed 
much anxiety about the accommodation of an attend- 
ant who was sleeping in the adjoining room; and 
gave even minute directions respecting it. 

On going to bed he felt very drowsy; and soon 
after the stupor of death began to creep over him. 
He began to pray for all his dearest friends indi- 
vidually; but his voice faltering, he could only say — 
u God bless them all ! The peace of God and of 
" Jesus Christ overshadow them, dwell in them, reign 
" in them ! My peace," said he, addressing his sister, 
" (the peace I now feel) be with you!" — " Thou, 
" God, wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind 
" is stayed on thee." His speech again began to fail, 
and he fell into a slumber ; but whenever his senses 
were recalled he returned to prayer. He repeated 
part of the Lord's prayer, but was unable to proceed ; 
and at last, with a composure scarcely credible at 
such a moment, he whispered to the dear relative who 
hung over his death-bed, " Close this eye, the other 
(i is closed already ; and now farewell I" Then, hav- 
ing again uttered part of the Lord's prayer, he fell 
asleep. u He is not dead, but sleepeth." 



To this imperfect record I cannot forbear annexing 
the following discriminative sketch of the mental and 
moral endowments of its interesting subject. It is 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 163 

from the eloquent pen of the Rev. Dr. Miller, late 
fellow of Trinity College, Dublin, author of " Lectures 
on the Philosophy of Modern History." It formed 
the conclusion of a letter to the editor of a London 
paper, in which he fully establishes the claim of the 
true author to the disputed Ode on Sir John Moore. 

" The poetical talent (continues the learned writer) 
u which could produce such an ode was, however, but 
u a minor qualification in the character of this young 
£t man ; for he combined eloquence of the first order 
" with the zeal of an apostle. During the short time 
" in which he held a curacy in the diocese of Armagh, 
" he so wholly devoted himself to the discharge of his 
<c duties in a very populous parish, that he exhausted 
" his strength by exertions disproportioned to his con- 
" stitution, and was cut off by disease in what should 
" have been the bloom of youth. This zeal, which 
" was too powerful for his bodily frame, was yet con- 
" trolled by a vigorous and manly intellect, which all 
" the ardour of religion and poetry could never urge 
" to enthusiasm. His opinions were as sober as if 
" they were merely speculative ; his fancy was as 
" vivid as if he never reasoned ; his conduct as zea- 
" lous as if he thought only of his practical duties ; 
" every thing in him held its proper place except a 
" due consideration of himself, and to his neglect of 
" this he became an early victim." 



SERMONS. 



INTRODUCTION. 



It seems proper to introduce these Sermons with a few 
prefatory observations. — It should be borne in recollection, 
that none of them were designed by their author for pub- 
lication. They were all, with a single exception, com- 
posed for a plain but intelligent country congregation ; 
and some of them were afterwards preached, with slight 
alterations, in Dublin. 

It appears, from the great variety of short hints preserved 
with each sermon, that the writer's mind had been teeming 
with thoughts which he had not time or space to introduce. 
Some of the topics were probably rejected as not suited to 
his flock ; but a few leading words were briefly and con- 
fusedly thrown together : some sparkles of thought were 
thus kept alive, which might have been sufficient to re- 
kindle whole trains of reflections and forms of address, 
adapted to future occasions. 

The reader will not, of course, expect to meet in these 
sermons any thing like trains of abstract or metaphysical 
reasoning, or learned elucidations of Scripture. Such 
would have been altogether misplaced, in discourses ad- 



168 INTRODUCTION. 

dressed to the middle and lower classes of society; and, 
indeed, it may be said that there are few congregations to 
which such a mode of preaching is adapted ; none, perhaps, 
before whom it should not be sparingly employed. The 
character of the author's mind, and of his accomplishments 
as a scholar, was such as, in other circumstances, might 
have led him to occasional exercises of this kind, in 
which, doubtless, he would have exhibited that acuteness 
and subtilty as a reasoner, and that ingenuity as a com- 
mentator, which distinguished him in conversational dis- 
cussion. 

Sermons which partake of such a character abound in 
our language. We are in no want of learned and argu- 
mentative discourses. There is a rich magazine of sound 
theological erudition in the sermons of our best divines; 
enough, indeed, to form a complete body of divinity. 

There are also many useful volumes of a plain, in- 
structive character, in which the great doctrines and duties 
of Christianity are simply and faithfully expounded. But 
most of them are deficient in interest. They present little 
to excite the curiosity, to seize upon the imagination, or 
to penetrate the heart. They serve well enough to direct, 
but are insufficient to impel. They are rather sound cate- 
chetical lectures than awakening appeals; formal state- 
ments, than affecting, heart-stirring exhortations. Such, I 
believe, are generally allowed to be the prevailing defects 
in our modern sermons. 

Those which are here submitted to the public, it is 



INTRODUCTION. 169 

hoped, may appear at least as samples of that description 
most wanted, and best fitted for general usefulness. They 
are, however, to be regarded merely as specimens of the au- 
thor's style of preaching. 

Their principal merit appears to be, that though origin- 
ally composed for a plain congregation, they were cast in 
such a shape as to be easily adapted, by slight alterations, 
to the most cultivated minds. " This (says an able writer * 
" on oratory) is a difficult task. Some dispositions indeed 
" there are who fall into it naturally ; but usually it is 
" the fruit of serious reflection and long experience. It 
" costs a man of quick parts and extensive knowledge 
u much pain and self-denial to reject every thing curious, 
" and fine, and acute, which his faculties and erudition 
" offer to him ; and to confine himself within the limits of 
" common sense. But, after all, the principal difficulty 
"herein is not from nature, but our own fault, — from 
" wrong passions, ambition, interest, or self-praise. Preach 
" not for preferment or fame, — but for God and virtue. 
" If your genius admits of it, you will then be concise, 
u nervous, and full." 

It is this quality (thus justly commended) which seems 
to have chiefly distinguished our author as a preacher. 
This is no unsupported assertion. Many persons, as well 
as the editor, can bear testimony to the strong emotions 



* Lectures concerning Oratory, by J. Lawson, D.D. Lee- 
turer in Oratory and History, Trinity College, Dublin, pp, 
394, 395, (1795.) 



1 70 INTRODUCTION. 

which the same sermons, with little alterations, excited 
amongst the extreme classes of society — in the minds of 
the literate and illiterate — the religious and the worldly, 

A sermon read is, indeed, different from a sermon 
spoken ; and it is possible that the effect of these sermons 
was much aided by a mode of delivery peculiarly suitable 
to their style and matter. Sometimes it was authoritative 
and abrupt ; sometimes slow and measured ; and at other 
times rapid — almost hurried. Sometimes there was a 
blunt and homely plainness, and often a soothing ten- 
derness of manner; but all was natural and unlaboured; 
more remarkable, perhaps, for energy and expression than 
for gracefulness, — for an earnest simplicity, than a studied 
elegance. 

It may be necessary for the editor to say a few words 
as to the task he has had to perform. Many of the manu- 
scripts were in such a state as to require much labour to 
transcribe them for the press; and a large portion of 
some of the sermons towards the close of the volume, was 
written out in such evident haste, as to cause some inac- 
curacies which it was absolutely necessary to correct. This, 
however, has been sparingly done; perhaps some may 
think too sparingly. 

For such necessary corrections the editor hopes he needs 
not apologise ; as the nature of all posthumous works, not 
designed for publication, usually demands them; and as 
his intimate friendship with the author, and his acquaint- 
ance with all his opinions and feelings, must be a full 



INTRODUCTION. 171 

security that the duty has been performed with rigid cau- 
tion and fidelity. 

The present selection has been made chiefly with a 
reference to the author's own probable estimate of his ser- 
mons. All which he preached in Dublin are included, as 
it may be naturally supposed they were among the num- 
ber which he had most thoroughly considered and pre- 
pared. A few others are added, which some, probably, 
may think not inferior. 

Under the circumstances in which they were composed, 
and in which they now appear before the public, it will be 
unnecessary, it is hoped, to deprecate the scrutiny of li- 
terary or theological criticism. In hortatory appeals like 
these, it is unreasonable to expect all the precision of a 
formal essay. There is a certain boldness and latitude of 
phrase to be allowed in such discourses : the form of ex- 
pression cannot easily be compressed within the narrow 
limits, or tamed down into the meagre statements, of a 
scholastic system. In these sermons, however, it will be 
found that all the grand doctrines of the Gospel, which 
alone can give vitality and energy to religious instruction, 
are prominently, faithfully, and practically inculcated. 
Happy will it be, if they are perused with a disposition 
of mind in any degree correspondent with the feelings* 

* These feelings may, in some degree, be illustrated by a 
few extracts from his private reflections, which were never 
meant to meet any eye but his own : they were roughly en- 
tered upon a few scattered papers, merely as hints for his own 
direction. They show, in a strong light, the genuine work- 



172 INTRODUCTION. 

by which they were dictated, or proportioned to the mo- 
mentous object which their pious author held steadily in 
view. If his glorified spirit be now permitted to share in 
the joy which angels feel " over one sinner that repenteth," 
there is not one of all the heavenly host which encircles 
the throne of God, that would enjoy a holier delight than 
he in witnessing the restoration of an immortal soul to its 
Father and its God ; — and surely it would, if possible, en- 

ings of his heart, — the kind of mental and spiritual exercise 
in which he engaged in the preparation of his sermons, — 
and the anxiety he felt about the style and topics most likely 
to make practical impressions upon the consciences of his 
hearers. 

Take a case in which God acts or speaks affectionately, — 
almost always one on the spiritual nature of sin, — on self- 
deceit — self-knowledge . 

Let it keep me humble to think how I myself have sinned 
in the face of light, and against the motives I have to withhold 
me ; against the knowledge of God's wrath ; against it and 
his redeeming love ; against my own preaching ; against the 
especial need of a minister, upon whose spiritual state de- 
pends, in a great degree, the state of his flock. 

Preach a sermon in which every false sentiment is sup- 
posed uttered on the death-bed ; a sermon in which we sup- 
pose the sensations of a sinner looking back upon those whom 
he may have misled, or neglected to instruct, — a father upon 
his children, &c. — a pastor upon his flock : when each shall 
say, " I pray thee send some one unto my father's house." — 
Give also the retrospect from Heaven upon those whom, 
through the grace of God, we may have assisted. 

Bring in familiar topics. — Begin naturally and easily, but 
so as to excite curiosity — with an incident or anecdote. Be- 



INTRODUCTION. 173 

hance such joy, if he could be assured that, even in a single 
instance, this humble record of his words was conducive to 
effect that object which was nearest to his heart when they 
passed through his living lips ; and that thus, " though ab- 
sent from us in the body/' he was still instrumental in the 
blessed work of " converting a sinner from the error of his 
way, and saving a soul alive." 

That he who is the Author of every good and perfect 

gift, may accompany them with the healthful and saving 

influence of his grace to the heart of every reader, is the 

fervent prayer of 

THE EDITOR. 



gin in an original and striking, but sedate manner. Before 
writing, read poetry and oratory. " Look constantly to the 
Bible. Every thing you read, read with a view to this." 

Give full weight to objections — with all fondness of hu- 
man frailty. Seize late, almost present occurrences. Ima- 
gine that you are arguing with the most profligate, ambitious, 
and talented opponent. 

Let my object be to improve myself first. — Enter into the 
feelings of your congregation, — into their failings. Throw 
them upon arguing against themselves : advise them affec- 
tionately. 



SERMON I. 



Ecclesiastes, xii. 1. 
Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth. 

We all know that we shall have to remember our 
Creator at one time or another. We cannot but 
know that he has many ways of inviting us to re- 
member him — "the sun that he makes to rise upon 
" the evil and the good — the rain that he sends 
" down upon the just and the unjust — the fruitful 
" seasons,, by which he fills our hearts with food and 
" gladness" — the weekly returns of his holy Sabbath 
— the ministry of the Gospel of salvation — and the 
table which he spreads before us, which he has insti- 
tuted as a peculiar memorial of himself, and at which 
he invites us to eat of the bread of life, and to drink 
from the fountain of living water* 

And we cannot but know that he has also the 
means of making himself remembered, and that he 
will not always allow himself to be forgotten, — but 
that he has certain agents at his disposal, by which, 
when he pleases, he can command our attention, — 
the sword — the famine — the pestilence — the death- 
bed — the last trumpet — u the worm that dieth not, 
and the fire that is not quenched." 



176 SERMON I. 

Such a Being cannot be remembered too often, or 
too soon. There is no one here that will venture to 
say, that there ever existed a man from the founda- 
tion of the world who remembered him too much, or 
began to fix his thoughts upon him too early. We 
need scarcely go farther, then, to discover what is to 
become of those who habitually forget him ; who only 
think of him when he is started into their minds by 
something violent or accidental, and who say, " It is 
yet time enough to remember my Creator/' Why 
they might as well say when death comes, it is yet 
time enough to die. It is hard to conceive the fate of 
these men, if they are cut off in this state of forgetful- 
ness, to be any thing but evil and misery ; in fact, it 
would put our invention to no easy trial, to imagine 
what good thing they would be capable of enjoying in 
the other world. Look into their own breasts; — 
they hope for nothing, they promise themselves no- 
thing; for they cannot think of these things when 
they forget Him who is the Author and Giver of these 
things. If then there were no other reason for remem- 
bering our Creator in the days of our youth, than that 
we may never have an old age vouchsafed to us, in 
which we may recall him to our thoughts ; that be- 
tween us and that old age there may be a great gulf 
fixed that we shall never pass ; if this were the only 
reason, should it not be enough? Nay, the sin of 
thus trifling with him and our own immortal souls, 
by deferring their consideration to a future opportu- 
nity, may be the very means of provoking him to 
withhold that opportunity for ever. 






SERMON I. 177 

But there is another reason for remembering our 
Creator in the days of our youth. The days of our 
youth are the days of our blessings. It would be hard 
to find throughout the whole range of creation, a more 
glorious and interesting object, than youth just enter- 
ing into active life, just rejoicing as a giant to run his 
course, Set him alongside of the noblest animal of 
any other species ; compare him with the old and de- 
caying members of his own — and what a difference ! 
In those days we enter into life with a shower of 
God's blessings upon our heads: we come adorned 
with all the choicest gifts of the Almighty ; with 
strength of body, with activity of limb, with health 
and vigour of constitution, with every thing to fit us 
both for labour and for enjoyment; if not endowed 
with a sufficiency, endowed with what is better, the 
power of obtaining it for ourselves by an honest and 
manly industry; with senses keen and observing, 
with spirits high, lively, and untameable, that shake 
off care and sorrow whenever they attempt to fasten 
upon our mind, and that enable us to make pleasure 
for ourselves where we do not find it, and to draw 
enjoyment and gratification from things in which we 
see nothing but pain, vexation, and disappointment. 

But, above all, in the days of our youth, the mind 
and the memory, with which we have been endowed 
by the Almighty, are then all fresh, alive, and vi- 
gorous. Alas ! we seldom think what an astonishing 
gift is that understanding which we enjoy — the bright 
light that God has kindled within us — until our old 

N 



178 SERMON I. 

age comes,, when we find that that understanding is 
wearing away, and that light becoming dim. Then 
shall we feel bitterly, most bitterly, what it is to 
have enjoyed, in the days of our youth, that privilege 
which seems to be withheld from all the animals by 
whom we are surrounded, — even the privilege of 
knowing that there is a God ; the privilege even of 
barely thinking upon such a Being; but more than 
that, the privilege of studying and understanding the 
astonishing variety of his works, of observing the ways 
of his providence, of admiring his power, his wisdom, 
and his goodness ; the power of acquiring knowledge 
of a thousand different kinds, and the power of laying 
it up in our memory, and using it when we please : 
and this in the days of our youth, when the mind is 
all on fire, brisk, clear, and powerful, and when we 
actually seem to take knowledge by force, and when 
the memory is large and spacious, so as to admit and 
contain the good things that we learn ; and where the 
place that should be filled by knowledge has not yet 
been preoccupied by crimes, by sorrows, and anxieties. 
In the days of our youth, too, our hearts are 
warmest, and our feelings and our attachments are 
strongest and most disinterested; we have not yet 
learnt the bitter lessons that are acquired by a mix- 
ture with the world, where we often lose our best and 
kindest affections, and are taught in return selfishness, 
avarice, suspicion, and deceit. Our hopes and our 
friendships have not yet been checked by disappoint- 
ment, nor our kindness and generosity by ingratitude. 



SERMON I* 179 

Thus, dressed out in all the riches of his Creator's 
goodness, with the marks of God's hand yet fresh 
upon him — with health, with strength, with mind, 
with memory, with warmth and liberality of heart — 
youth comes forward into life, covered over and hung 
round with memorials of his Creator. Is it necessary 
to ask, whether this man should remember his Cre- 
ator ? Supposing that there was no stronger motive 
than gratitude for all these blessings, would it be 
a hard thing to ask, that the Lord of health, and 
strength, and mind, and memory, should have a place 
in the memory that he has himself bestowed? — and 
yet if our recollection of our Creator depended only 
upon our gratitude, is there one heart on the earth 
that would rise, of its own accord, to the throne of 
goodness, to offer its voluntary incense of praise and 
thanksgiving for all the unnumbered benefits that 
have been showered upon our heads ? It is well that 
our recollection of our Creator depends upon a more 
severe and a more powerful motive; for we cannot 
imagine that God has lavished upon us all this pro- 
fusion of his treasures, without intending that they 
should be used in a particular way. Would you be- 
lieve any one that told you, that God, who gives the 
meanest blessing to the meanest animal for some cer- 
tain use, can have glorified you with such powers and 
riches of body and of mind, and that he has yet left 
the management to your own humour and caprice ? 
Really and truly, do you believe that you have been 
supplied with all these magnificent gifts for so many 



180 SERMON I. 

toys to trifle with, and not so many weapons that you 
are to wield in the service of the God who gave them ? 
It is impossible. We cannot but know and feel in 
our hearts that they were given for great purposes, 
and that they are not at our disposal ; that God will 
require the fruits of his own gifts; that if we use 
them as " instruments of unrighteousness unto sin, 
" and not as instruments of righteousness unto God" 
— " the wages of those things is death :" that if we 
prostitute the health and the strength that he has 
given us, to drunkenness and debauchery, and the 
mind that he has given us, to pride, revenge, covet- 
ousness, or impurity ; if we do not use them for the 
purpose both of understanding his will and obeying 
it; of worshipping him in spirit and in truth; of 
" letting our light so shine before men, that they may 
" see our good works, and glorify our Father which is 
" in heaven ;" we shall have turned all these bless- 
ings to our ruin. At our peril, then, are we bound to 
remember our Creator, in order that we may consult 
his will and obey his commands, so as to be able to 
render an account of the talents with which we have 
been intrusted. And accordingly, about two verses 
before this passage, as if to prepare us for the precept, 
" Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth," 
there comes these solemn and powerful words — " Re- 
" joice, young man, in thy youth, and let thy heart 
** cheer thee in the days of thy youth, and walk in 
" the ways of thine heart, and in the sight of thine 



SERMON I. 181 

% eyes : but know thou,, that for all these things God 
" will bring thee into judgment/' 

We have now considered the days of our youth as 
the days of our blessings, but there remains another 
consideration still more awakening; for the days of 
our youth are also the days of our dangers. If a 
young man, at his first outset into life, were to have 
all the temptations that he was afterwards to undergo 
suddenly presented before his view ; if all the unseen 
enemies of his soul, his peace, and his innocence, were 
all, at once, to become visible ; if all his future scenes 
of blasphemy, riot, and intemperance, were, by one 
flash of lightning, disclosed to his contemplation, — I 
suppose that nothing less than a look into the next 
world, if it were possible, could produce a more ter- 
rible shock upon his feelings ; perhaps it would be too 
much for him to see at once the thousand ways in 
which the world, the flesh, and the devil would lay 
siege to his soul — would solicit his passions — would 
undermine his resolutions — the thousand artifices by 
which they would endeavour to render vice more and 
more familiar to his taste, and insinuate his poison 
into his very constitution. Now what safeguard can 
he take, entering, as he does, among such a host of 
enemies — enemies, too, that go slowly to work, so 
that a man scarcely perceives that he is losing ground 
and giving way ? He must take some fixed and un- 
changeable principle of conduct, or he is ruined ; there 
must be something solid and immovable, at which his 



182 SERMON I. 

mind may ride at anchor, — something that will not 
change, or shift, or flatter, but will always tell him 
the stern — the pure — the terrifying truth. 

Now what is the principle from which we naturally 
act in the days of our youth ? Either from none at 
all, or we are governed by custom, by example, by 
fashion, and by the opinion of those into whose com- 
pany we are generally thrown. Would it not be 
enough to observe, without going a step farther, that 
this is nothing less than making mankind our God — 
than making our company our God ? For, recollect, 
that whatever you take as your chief rule in life, and 
the leading governor and director of your conduct, 
that is your God; it is to you what God should be — 
it is in God's place — it is this you remember when 
you should remember your Creator ; in this you live, 
and upon this you must depend when you die. 

But let us examine this rule — this God that we 
take unto ourselves, to direct us through the dangers 
of our youth — and what is it? The opinion of that 
very world, and of those very companions who are the 
means of seducing us from our duty ; the very world 
that supplies all these temptations, that gives way to 
them, that riots and indulges in them, is that from 
which we take our laws and principles ; composed of 
men just as willing to yield to temptation as ourselves, 
and just as anxious to discover the same excuses. 
And thus, those whose principles, example, and ap- 
plause, are to us instead of God, are the companions 
of our carousals, of our revellings, of our debauches, 



SERMON I. 183 

and of our impurities, and who give the name of virtue 
and vice to whatever they please, without consulting 
Him who is the fountain of all virtue, and the burning 
enemy of all vice. 

But this is not all, nor perhaps the worst, The 
opinions of the world, as to virtue and vice, are not 
only ruinously false, but they are as changeable as 
they are false. What, in one age of the world, would 
have branded a man with infamy as long as he 
breathed, becomes not only pardonable, but reputable 
in another. The customs of the world, and the fa- 
shionable crimes of society, are shifting from age to 
age. For one instance out of a hundred : — some time 
ago there existed a nation where theft was honoured, 
as a proof of skill and dexterity ; while, in that very 
same nation, drunkenness and immodesty — intem- 
perance of any kind — would have ruined a mans re- 
putation for ever. Now look at the change ! In our 
days, the one is stigmatised with punishment and 
dishonour, while men often boast of their achieve- 
ments in the other. How is a man to be guided by 
this childish and despicable world, that has not yet 
learnt, in six thousand years, to guide and regulate 
itself? — that calls a thing virtue at one time, and vice 
at another ; that calls evil good, and good evil ; that 
puts bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter ? Let him 
put it aside from him with contempt, and let him 
" remember his Creator/' He will not shift and 
change with times and seasons. The fashions and 
opinions of the world may turn round and round with 



184 SERMON I. 

the world itself; but the law of God stands unchanged 
and unchangeable as the God that endureth for ever 
and ever : they have perished, and shall perish ; but 
he hath remained and shall still remain : the fashions 
and opinions of the world shall all " wax old as doth 
" a garment, and he shall fold them up, and they 
:c shall be changed ; but he is the same, and his years 
" shall not fail." Why, one thought upon God, in 
the midst of dissipation and profligacy, of oaths and 
drunkenness, of indecencies of language and of con- 
duct, of revenge, animosity, and blood, (nay, in the 
midst of the less clamorous and more refined crimi- 
nalities which are sanctioned by society,) I say, one 
thought upon God would produce little less than a 
kind of revelation ; it would carry along with it such 
holiness, such purity, such love, that he must distin- 
guish virtue from vice through the flimsy and mi- 
serable disguise in which they have been enveloped 
by mankind ; the path of duty would be open before 
him, and guilt would come home to his breast, though 
the laugh and the scorn of society were echoing 
around. 

But the law of God is not left to our own capri- 
cious recollections; — it is entered upon record — it has 
been rained down upon us from heaven — it has been 
practised, fulfilled, and embodied in the Son of God, 
and sanctified by the blood of the Legislator. Here 
must the young man remember his Creator, while the 
world, the flesh, and the devil, are crowding around 
to devour him. With this law in his hand, and the 




SERMON I. 185 

Son of God by his side, let him go through the fur- 
nace, or he is lost. 

But suppose that all this has been neglected, and 
that you, notwithstanding, have been permitted, by 
the mercies of the God you have forgotten, to arrive 
at the borders of an unholy old age; — how will you 
then set about remembering your Creator — reserving 
for the dregs of sickness and infirmity, the work of 
youth in all its vigour — offering rude and cruel vio- 
lence to languid nature, as she is retiring to her repose 
— returning indeed to a second childhood, and be- 
ginning life anew, just as you are dropping into the 
grave — obliged to undo all that you have done — 
to turn out the whole tribe of loathsome ideas that 
have lain festering in your mind, and to purify a dis- 
eased and corrupted memory from all the sordid 
thoughts and recollections that have filled the place 
which should have been occupied by your Creator? 
And then, too, when you shall come to teach this 
precept to your children, instead of pronouncing it 
with all the dignity of a father — of one who is to 
them in the place of God upon earth, you will hang 
your head and drop your grey hairs in shame before 
the son that should honour and respect you ; you will 
blush to look your child in the face, when you read 
him a lesson that you never practised ; and your lips 
will quiver, and your tongue will falter, when you 
say to him, u Remember your Creator in the days of 
your youth." And yet, are we to say that there is 
no hope for such a man ? God forbid. If there were 



186 SERMON I. 

no hope for those who have forgotten their Creator, 
which of us could lift his eyes to heaven ? You, and 
all the world, and he who warns you of its conse- 
quences, every day and every hour, have forgotten 
their Creator. We have used the awful blessings that 
he has bestowed upon us, for our sport and amusement, 
and forgotten from whom they come; and we have 
rushed into the dangers and temptations of life, with 
nothing to guide us but the impulses of our own 
guilty nature, or the opinion of the world that has 
drawn its principles from its practice, instead of 
forming its practice upon its principles. Those who 
feel this in the depth of their hearts, and the awful 
state to which it has brought them, will know how to 
value the great and glorious atonement that has been 
made for them upon the cross. It will be music to 
their ears to be told, that to those who have forgotten 
their Creator it is yet said, Kemember your Redeemer 
and live. Open wide your memory and your heart t 
this blessed Redeemer, and let the King of Glory come 
in. Just think, — whom will you remember instead 
of him ? Who is there that shall fill his place, and 
sit upon the throne of your memory, that will return 
you faithfully love for love — thought for thought? 
Will the object that is dearest to you upon earth? 
The heart of that being may be now cold and faith- 
less; that heart will certainly be one day cold and 
mouldering in the grave, and all the profusion of me- 
mory that you lavish upon that barren spot, will 
never make one fresh thought or one genial recollection 



LI 



SERMON I. 187 

spring from the ashes that you loved, to reward your 
fond and hopeless prodigality. But there is not one 
pure thought, one holy recollection that struggles to 
rise to that gracious Being, that shall be allowed to 
fall to the ground, but shall be kindly received, and 
richly repaid ; and he will return it from on high with 
a rain of blessings upon your head. Go, and remem- 
ber Him who thought of you before you had the 
power of thinking either of him or of yourself, — - 
making you young and lusty as an eagle, and only 
" a little lower than the angels, — crowning you with 
majesty and honour;" — who remembered you when 
you had forgotten him and yourself, and all that be- 
came a creature whom his Creator had marked out 
for immortality ; — who remembered you when he 
bowed his head upon the cross j and who is ready to 
recognise you before his Father and the holy angels — 
even before the Creator whom you had forgotten. 
Go, and think of him —for at this instant he is think- 
ing of every one of you ! 



SERMON II. 



Hebrews, xii. 1. 

Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of 
things not seen. 

We all profess a firm belief in the truths which 
God has been pleased to declare. Now the Scriptures 
contain certain threats and certain promises ; — threats 
of vengeance and punishment to every soul that 
sinneth ! promises of mercy and immortality to all 
that fly to the refuge appointed in a Redeemer ; and 
therefore, when we declare that we believe in God's 
word, we at the same time profess a firm faith in the 
reality of these threats and these promises, and in the 
certainty that, sooner or later, they will be carried 
into execution. 

And perhaps nothing could shock or affront us 
more, than that any man should venture to hint a 
suspicion of the soundness of our faith, or insinuate 
that we doubted the truth of these things. However, 
there are so many men of all kinds, of all characters, 
of all descriptions, who declare that they have this 
faith ; men who perhaps never spent one serious and 
solemn hour, in the course of their lives, in the con- 
sideration of these things, which they profess to be- 



SERMON II- 189 

lieve ; men who live just as they would if they never 
believed them, — that there is some reason to fear that 
some fatal mistake exists among mankind upon this 
point ; and we shall do well to look to ourselves, and 
examine whether all is as safe as we could wish, and 
whether we do really and truly believe the things that 
the word of God contains. 

Now the word of God itself supplies us with an 
excellent method of considering this subject ; and it 
is the more satisfactory, because it is one which our 
own common sense seems to acknowledge at once ; 
" Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evi- 
" dence of things not seen." It is to us instead of 
sight, it is as if we had seen the things that we be- 
lieve, and is therefore to produce the same effect. 
This is a principle to which our common sense sub- 
scribes ; for if we were to assure any man that a cer- 
tain fact existed, and require him to act as he certainly 
would if he had seen it himself, what reason could he 
give for refusing ? None, but that he doubted it, that 
he was not sure of its existence. 

Thus, then, if we believe those things sincerely, 
from our heart and soul — if we are not dissembling 
with God and deceiving ourselves, our belief of these 
things must be as if we had seen them ; our belief of 
the threats and the promises of God must be as if we 
witnessed them actually fulfilled. 

Our inquiry, then, naturally is, what would be the 
case if we really beheld them ? Suppose that we were 
now suddenly conveyed into the world of spirits, and 



190 SERMON II. 

it was given unto you to see the strange doings of 
futurity ; suppose the curtain withdrawn that conceals 
them from view, when you should behold a " great 
" white throne, and Him who sat upon it, from whose 
" face the earth and the heaven fled away, and there 
" was no place found for them ; " thousand thousands 
ministering unto him; the judgment set, B-nd the 
books opened; when you should hear the trumpet 
sound, and in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, 
the dead, small and great, stand before God, to be 
judged out of those things that are written in the 
book ; (for all this is actually in the word of God ; of 
all this, faith is the substance and the evidence ;) and 
then, when you should find that " without holiness 
" no man could see the Lord/' that none but the 
" pure in heart should see God," and that it was the 
secrets of men's hearts that God judged in that day, 
and that for every idle word they must give account, 
and that every mouth was stopped, and naturally 
" all the world was guilty before God ; " and that 
" by the deeds of the law no flesh was justified in his 
" sight ; " (for all this is actually in the word of God, 
and of all this, faith is the substance and the evi- 
dence ;) and then, when you should find, that " with- 
" out shedding of blood there is no remission," and 
that there was but one Mediator between God and 
man ; when you should perceive that there was then 
(e one name/' and but " one name under heaven by 
" which men must be saved," and it was inquired, 
whether ec every one that named that name had de- 



SERMON II. 191 

"parted from iniquity ;" and that, in consequence, 
he " separated one from the other, as a shepherd 
" divideth the sheep from the goats ; " that on the 
left were those who walked after the flesh, and those 
who were guilty of ec adultery, fornication, unclean- 
" ness, lasciviousness, hatred, variance, emulation, 
" wrath, strife, sedition, heresies, envyings, murder, 
" drunkenness, revelling, and such like ; " and that 
on the right were those ' c who walked after the Spirit," 
and who " brought forth love, joy, peace, long-suffer- 
" ing, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temper- 
" ance;" and when you should hear him say to those 
on his left, u Depart, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, 
prepared for the devil and his angels ; " and to those 
on his right, eg Come, ye blessed children of my Father, 
" inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the founda- 
" tion of the world : " (for all these things are actu- 
ally in the word of God, and of all this, faith is the 
substance and the evidence ;) and then, when this 
scene was closed, if you were to follow those two dif- 
ferent classes of men, to the abode that was to be 
theirs to all eternity, — what would be your sensa- 
tions ? When first you should visit the mansions of 
everlasting misery, and should behold u indignation 
" and wrath, tribulation and anguish, upon the souls 
" of those who had done evil;" when, through the 
regions of outer darkness, you should hear " weeping 
" and gnashing of teeth," and should discern through 
the gloom the writhings of the worm that dieth not, 
and the waving of the flame that shall never be 



192 SERMON II. 

quenched : and when, in the second place, you should 
enter the heavenly Jerusalem, and should be saluted 
at the first step with the sweet melody of angels over 
<c sinners that had repented/' and should see the Lord 
God wiping away all tears from their eyes; where 
there was no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, 
neither shall there be any more pain for ever ; where 
they shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more ; 
where the city hath no need of sun or moon to shine 
in it ; for the glory of God lightens it, and the Lamb 
is the light thereof: when you should see there the 
pure river of the water of life, " and in the midst of 
" the street of that city, the tree of life, and the Lamb 
" that is in the midst of the throne feeding them, and 
" leading them unto fountains of water ; " and should 
hear them sing a new song before the throne, which 
no man could learn, save those that are redeemed 
from the earth ; (for all this is actually in the word 
of God, and of all this, faith is the substance and the 
evidence;) — now, after having thus looked into fu- 
turity, and taken a view of the objects of your faith, 
suppose you again alight upon earth, and return to the 
company of human beings, and the pursuits of your 
ordinary occupation, — what a changed man would you 
be ! what a new aspect would the earth wear, and all 
the objects by which you are surrounded ! what new 
conceptions would you form of happiness and misery ! 
what new desires, nay, what new passions would you 
find, as it were, introduced into your heart ! what a 
stranger would you find yourself in the midst of those 



SERMON II. 193 

things among which you were perfectly at home ! 
" How is the gold become dim, how is the most fine 
" gold changed ! " " How are the riches corrupted, 
iC and the garments moth-eaten ! " How poor is 
wealthy and how mean are honours ! For when you 
looked on them, then would occur to you the riches 
you had gazed on in the heavenly Jerusalem — the 
glories by which it was illuminated. 

With what horror would you then look on the 
drunken revel and the wanton debauch ; for the mo- 
ment they presented themselves before you, the groans 
would sound in your ears that you had heard from the 
bottomless pit. When you heard the laugh of wild 
intemperance and frantic intoxication, it would be 
drowned in the shrieks of the damned, that would be 
still echoing about you; and if you heard a fellow- 
creature sin, whether against yourself or not, no mat- 
ter, (you have just seen what will make you think 
very lightly of all earthly pains and injuries,) what 
would be uppermost in your minds ? Any little 
petty rancour, any little mean revenge, or any cold 
and unheeding indifference ? No : but you would 
think of the terrible portion which that man was 
earning for himself in u the lake that burns with ever- 
" lasting brimstone/' and you would fly to " snatch 
" him as a brand from the burning ; " you would 
look upon all around you with a most anxious and 
affectionate interest, recollecting that they were all 
heirs of the happiness or misery which you had just 
been witnessing in the other world ; you would be to 

o 



194 SERMON II. 

them a prophet, an evangelist, an apostle, — " the 
voice of one crying in the wilderness ; " you would 
summon all your powers to teach them the things 
that belong unto their peace, to unlock to them heaven 
and hell; to describe the horrors you had beheld in 
the one, and the glories you had seen in the other. 

And then with what new eyes would you look 
upon sin! How many things would then appear 
awful sins, which you before overlooked and under- 
valued, when you recollected that " for ' every idle 
word that a man spoke, God brought him into judg- 
ment ;" — when you recollected that it was the secrets 
of men's hearts that you saw God judging — that you 
saw him untwisting a ' man's very heart-strings, and 
finding what was enclosed within ; " for the word of 
" God is quick and powerful, and sharper than any 
" two-edged sword, piercing even to the dividing 
" asunder the joints and marrow, the soul and spirit, 
" and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the 
<r heart !" 

Little would you then think of giving gentle names 
to sins which may appear light and pardonable in 
your own eyes, when you recollected how they stain- 
ed and corrupted the soul in the eyes of Him " who 
is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity/' 

How then would your conversation become purified, 
refined, and exalted : and if you found any corrupt 
communication proceeding out of your mouth, how 
would you check it like poison, when you would re- 
collect the songs of blessed spirits that you had heard 



SERMON II. 195 

above ! and you would think, — Can I hope with such 
lips as these to join the ranks of those whom I heard 
crying, " Holy, holy, holy V And then how would 
the very innocent pleasures of life sink in your esti- 
mation, when you thought of those pleasures you had 
seen at the right hand of God. How would you fear 
lest they should become uppermost in your heart, and 
engage your best and choicest affections, and thus you 
should be tempted to choose your portion upon earth, 
and forfeit your treasure which is in heaven : " for 
where your treasure is, there will your heart be also \" 
Not " the harp or the viol, tabret or the pipe, or the 
wine/' would make you " forget the work of the 
Lord, or the operation of his hands ;" " but your right 
" hand would forget her cunning, yea, your tongue 
" would cleave to the roof of your mouth, ere you 
" preferred not Jerusalem in your mirth \" You would 
feel yourself a stranger and a pilgrim on the earth — 
a citizen of a far distant country, an exile from your 
native land ; and you would often steal from the com- 
pany of the foreigner, to think of the beauties of your 
home, — its loved and delightful inhabitants, — to cast a 
longing, lingering look towards its shores, and medi- 
tate sweetly upon your return. Such would you be, 
if you had actually seen those things of which your 
faith is the substance and the evidence; and there- 
fore such must you be, if you really believe these 
truths. 

And now let each man compare what he is with 
what we have just found he would be, if he had seen 



196 SERMON II. 

what he professes to believe. And are you like it ? 
Is there any striking resemblance? No doubt the 
impressions would be much more lively and powerful 
if they had been actually seen. It is scarcely to be 
expected that we should attain so great a degree of 
spiritual excellence,, as if we had seen them face to 
face ; but the simple question that every man of plain 
common sense has to ask himself, is this — Whether 
there is to be so very great a difference between a 
man who had seen these things, and a man who from 
his heart and soul believed these things to be true, and 
that one day or other he shall see these things ? Is 
your life (I will not say equal to, but is it) like that 
which we have been just describing ? Does it fall 
short of it in degree, not in kind ? or (what is the 
true and most important question) is it continually 
approaching it ? Is it more and more like it, though 
you may not hope to attain it on this side of the 
grave ? Remember, there were two different men 
that applied to our Saviour for relief; they were both 
fathers, and came to ask it for their children. As 
soon as Christ had said to one of them, a Thy son 
liveth," he went his way, believing the word that 
Jesus spake, and accordingly he found his son full 
restored ; — now this man's faith, in this instance, wai 
the substance of what he hoped for, the perfect evi- 
dence of what he had not seen. But when Christ 
asked the other father, " Believest thou that I am 
able to do this thing?" the father answered, with 
tears in his eyes, " Lord, I believe ; help thou mine 



it 



SERMON II. 197 

unbelief!" He felt that his faith was not as it should 
be, that it was not the evidence of what he did not 
see ; but he felt humbled under the sense of his weak- 
ness, eager to have it remedied and removed, = — and he 
prayed with all his heart that his faith might be con- 
firmed and invigorated. And was he disappointed ? 
The good and benevolent Being who never yet reject- 
ed the prayer of humble earnestness, said unto him, 
even as unto the other, " Thy son liveth." 

But there is an actual difference between the com- 
mon faith of a man of the world and of a real and 
genuine Christian. The one is the business of a mo- 
ment : it begins and ends with a repetition of his 
creed — it is despatched in the service of the day. But 
with the other it is a living principle, always growing 
and increasing ; always approaching the state of one 
who had actually seen what he believes, and of con- 
trolling, directing, and animating his whole conduct. 
He will always have those future things which God 
has assured him he shall one day behold, so fully be- 
fore him, as to have all the effect of reality upon his 
life and conversation. Just conceive what would be 
your manner of speaking and acting, if on every Sab- 
bath, instead of coming to hear of these truths, you 
had them actually disclosed to your contemplation ; 
would you spend the ensuing week as you now intend 
to spend it ? And yet be assured you do not virtually 
believe these truths, unless your faith in some degree 
performs the office of your sight, and discloses heaven 
and hell before vou. 



198 SERMON II. 

But do not mistake: as your faith improves and 
advances, it will lose more of the threats and the ter- 
rors of religion, and draw closer and closer to its hopes, 
its promises, its pleasures and enjoyments; for observe, 
faith is not described to be the substance of things 
feared, but the " substance of things hoped for/' For 
after the soul of a sinner has been thoroughly awaken- 
ed both to its guilt and its danger, and has fled from 
God's justice to the love of a Redeemer, it soon for- 
gets the punishment from which it is escaping, in the 
glories to which it is approaching ; and though faith 
represents before us both heaven and hell, yet as the 
spirit advances in its path of duty, and rises upwards 
towards its God, the mansions of misery are left far- 
ther and farther beneath; the flames grow fainter, 
and the groans die away ; while, at the same time, 
the gates of heaven are more clearly discerned, and 
the voices of the redeemed more distinctly heard. 

Thus fear gives way to hope; and the Christian 
who has taken up his cross, and followed his Re- 
deemer, has seldom to look behind at the wrath that 
he is escaping, but onward and upward, at the Saviour 
who is his hope and his conductor. This is the grand 
practical principle of the Gospel, the moving-spring of 
the Christians duty, and the rich fountain of his obe- 
dience; that faith which displays his Redeemer as 
actually present, and the glorious blessings which he 
had purchased, full in view. This is no fable, no nice 
fanciful speculation; it is a principle that has been 
acted upon since the foundation of the world. 



SERMON II. 199 

The chapter before us contains a splendid catalogue 
of those that were moved, inspired, and invigorated by 
its mighty energies; — men that " forsook their coun- 
try/' went out, not knowing whither they went, and 
became strangers and pilgrims upon the earth — Abra- 
ham and all the patriarchs; men who, through the 
distance of a thousand years, saw the Redeemer afar 
off, before he had descended upon earth, and followed 
the bare and distant promise of God, as if it were the 
full and living substance: they submitted to exile, 
suffering, and reproach ; and what is the reason that 
is assigned ? " As seeing him who is invisible/' The 
Redeemer, to them, was a dim and twinkling star ; 
and yet cheerfully and gratefully did they steer their 
lonely course by its mild and sacred influence. But 
upon us the Sun of Righteousness has risen. 

The apostle (after closing his glorious list of those 
who saw Him that was invisible, long before he came,) 
turns round upon those who believe that he has come, 
and summons them to imitate their example: " Where- 
" fore, seeing we are compassed with so great a cloud 
u of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the 
cc sin that doth so easily beset us : and let us run 
" with patience the race that is set before us, looking 
" unto Jesus, the author and the finisher of our faith ;" 
unto Jesus — who was invisible ! 

And gloriously did he who tells you that your 
ce faith must be the substance of things hoped for," 
and who summons you to look unto the invisible Re- 
deemer — gloriously did he fulfil his own injunction ; 



200 SERMON II. 

for, looking unto him, did he and the whole company 
of the apostles, and the glorious army of martyrs, pre- 
cipitate themselves through peril, persecution, and 
death. The description of what they suffered makes 
the blood run cold ; — and yet how do they speak of 
it ? " This light affliction ! this light affliction, which 
cc endureth but for a moment, worketh for us a far 
"" more exceeding and eternal weight of glory ; while 
" we look not at the things which are seen, but at the 
" things which are not seen." It was by looking at 
things invisible as if actually present, that they 
proved more than conquerors in all their struggles. 

Another of that glorious company, exhorting his 
converts to give trial of their faith, points to Him that 
is invisible — " whom having not seen, ye love ; in 
" whom, though now ye see him not, yet believing, 
cc ye rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of glory." 

May we, as we value the souls that he has pur- 
chased — as we value the blessings that he offers, so 
keep him living in our view, that we may run the 
race that is set before us ; and whether it be our des- 
tiny to perish by the slow and icy hand of disease, or 
by the angry violence of man, may we be found look- 
ing unto the u Author and Finisher of our faith, with 
Ci our eye fixed on Him that is invisible !" 



SERMON III. 



Genesis, i. 26. 

And God said. Let us make man in our image, after our 
likeness. 

If a man were suddenly asked, To what created 
being he would compare the Almighty; what object 
among all those that surrounded him, he conceived to 
have been originally intended by its Creator for his 
peculiar image and representative ? he would probably 
point to the sun, and would say, that there he saw 
God at once most faithfully and most gloriously re- 
presented. He would say, that in it we seemed ee to 
live, and move, and have our being ;" that every 
where, and at every moment, its influence is felt ; 
that it appears to possess the power of calling things 
into existence, and of consigning them to nothing 
again ; that all creation seems to depend upon it for 
sustenance, comfort, and enjoyment ; that by its kind 
and gracious light we become acquainted with each 
other, and with the objects by which we are surround- 
ed : that it both gives us all that we enjoy, and after- 
wards enables us to enjoy it ; and that, like its Al- 
mighty Creator, it has no respect of persons, but 
scatters its rich blessings abroad with generous and 



202 SERMON III. 

impartial liberality. This would be a very natural 
answer : and thus we find that the first kind of idola- 
try of which men were guilty,, was the worship of the 
sun ; and in some nations it is still continued, and he 
is there regarded not so much the image of the Di- 
vinity, as the Divinity himself. 

But there was a time when there was a more mag- 
nificent representative of the Godhead. There was a 
time when we were preferred before the sun, and the 
moon, and the host of heaven. But a little before, 
God had formed the sun, and the stars, and the fir- 
mament, and he saw that they were good; and yet 
not one of these did he pronounce his image, — and as 
if he thought he was coming to a greater work than 
all before, and one in which he felt himself more par- 
ticularly interested^ he seems to prepare Himself for 
our creation, — " Let us make man in our own image/' 
For the production of inferior animated beings, he was 
contented to employ inferior agents : when he would 
create other living things, he commands the waters 
and the earth to produce them. cc Let the waters 
" bring forth abundantly the moving creature that 
" hath life, and fowl that may fly above the earth in 
" the open firmament of heaven; — and let the earth 
" bring forth the living creature after his kind, and 
" cattle, and creeping thing, and beasts of the earth 
" after their kind." But when he comes to man, he 
seems to rise to the work Himself; " Let us make 
man in our own image." He appears to have taken 
great and unbounded delight in the production of man- 



SERMON III. 203 

kind. The blessing which he pronounced upon him 
is repeated a second time, as if he felt peculiar plea- 
sure in bestowing it ; and when his work was finished, 
he looked with fondness upon the image of himself 
that he had made, and pronounced it to be very good ; 
it is as if he had said, c I give you a portion of my 
' glory and my character ; I consign it into your 
' hands and your care. Behold, I gave the sun a 
e portion of my light, and bade him go forth with it 
e into the world as my servant and my minister ; but 
' I give you a share of my attributes and my immor- 
c tality, and my everlasting blessing is upon you if 
6 you fulfil the trust/ — Which of us will now stand 
forward and claim the fulfilment ? 

This image — this beautiful image has been long 
since shivered and disfigured ; but its fragments re- 
main to testify that it once existed. There is in the 
hearts of men a testimony that they shall live for 
ever; a voice that echoes through futurity; a sense 
that they shall see strange things in another world ; 
thoughts that wander through eternity, and find no 
resting place. This is a fragment of God's image, a 
shattered remnant of his immortality, and it is there 
to testify against us ; for if it had been perfect, no- 
thing would be more delightful than to think that we 
should live for ever; to look forward into brighter 
scenes, and rejoice in the glory that should be re- 
vealed. All the gold of Arabia would not be worth 
one hour's excursion of the mind of man into the re- 
gions of futurity. For ever and for ever would his 



204 SERMON III. 

mind be reaching forward, and dwelling with fondness 
upon the thought, that never, from age to age, when 
time should be no more, should he cease from being. 
The pleasures of the spirits that walk to and fro in 
the light of God's countenance, and circle his throne 
rejoicing, would crowd his fancy and delight his hopes. 
Visions of celestial happiness would visit him in 
dreams of the night ; and, compared with the dim and 
distant perspective of eternity, all earthly things would 
seem " weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable." And 
what is the fact ? Let every man judge himself how 
his natural heart shrinks from the contemplation of a 
future state of being ; how he shudders to look into 
eternity, as into some dreary and bottomless pit. 
What a cold and dismal thing does immortality ap- 
pear; and what a refreshment it is to his spirits to 
withdraw his thoughts from the consideration, and re- 
turn to his beloved earth ! And then, only observe 
with what eagerness and desperation he gives up soul 
and body to the pursuit of things which he knows full 
well will soon be to him as if they had never been. 
And yet, this man, if you were to ask him the ques- 
tion, would tell you, that he expected to live for ever ; 
and that when his body was mouldering in the dust 
from which it was taken, his soul would plunge into 
an ocean of spirits without bottom and without shore. 
This he would tell you gravely, as a matter of course. 
And then only observe him for one week or for one 
day, or for this day, which has been sanctified to im- 
mortal purposes, and you will find his cares, his hopes, 



SERMON III. 205 

his fears, his wishes, his affections, busied and bustling 
about this little span of earth, and this little measure 
of time which he occupies : and death finds this im- 
mortal being making playthings of sand, and carries 
him away from them all, into a land where they shall 
all be forgotten. This is a strange and astonishing 
contradiction, — the only thing that looks like a blun- 
der through all the works of nature. Every thing 
else seems to know its appointed time and its appoint- 
ed place: — the sun knows his place in the heavens, 
he does his duty in the firmament, and brings round 
the seasons in their order, and the ocean knows the 
boundaries beyond which it must not dare to pass ; — 
every animal knows the home that kind nature has 
provided — u the ox kno weth his owner, and the ass 
" his master's crib : but Israel doth not know ; my 
u people doth not consider/' Among all the creatures 
that surround us, we are the only beings that look 
not to our native home ; the only beings that seem to 
have broken the laws of nature ; to have forgotten our 
owner, and the mansions of our Father's house. This 
naked expectation of immortality, while we see no 
beauty in it, that we should desire it — while we are 
feeding on ashes, and have lost our relish for immor- 
tal food — is one of the fragments of God's image; 
it shows that it once existed, and that it now is 
broken. 

But look again, and observe all the astonishing fa- 
culties of man ; his reason, his memory, his imagina- 
tion. Observe only how he can, as it were, take 



206 SERMON III. 

knowledge by violence, how he can lock it up in his 
memory, and keep it in store for his use ; with what 
quickness and ingenuity he can invent and contrive ; 
with what judgment he can weigh, and deliberate, 
and decide; how he can extort nature's secrets, how 
he can penetrate into the distant works of God, and 
inform when the sun shall be darkened, and when 
the moon shall refuse to give her light. 

Consider all these astonishing faculties, worthy of 
the master-piece of God, and then look at the brutal 
and abominable passions that blacken and deface his 
soul ; look at this same immortal creature, beautified 
with all the gifts of the Almighty, blotting out the 
very understanding with which he has been glorified, 
by a drunkenness of which brutes are incapable ; nay, 
sometimes " glorying in his shame," and boasting of 
having thus spoiled the good work of God ! Observe 
him next, inflamed with lust, and plunged into profli- 
gacy and debauchery, and making the eternal soul, 
that has been armed with such glorious faculties, the 
servant and slave of his perishable body. Observe 
him rioting in hatred, malignity, and revenge, and ad- 
mitting the dark passions of an evil spirit into the 
soul that the Almighty had made to be an habitation 
for himself. 

Measure now this creature with himself; the won- 
derful powers of his mind, the grasp of his memory, 
the lightning of his invention, with the depravity of 
which the beast of the field is incapable ; the impurity 
that brings his soul into bondage to his body, the ma- 



SERMON III. 207 

lice and revenge that make him an abode of the spirit 
of darkness. Truly " the wild beasts are in our ruins,, 
" and the dragons are in our pleasant places." These 
are fragments of an image that was beautiful ; enough 
to show that it once existed, and that now it is 
broken. 

And amongst these ruins there is a voice sometimes 
heard, like the spirit of a departed inhabitant, unwill- 
ing to leave even the ruins of the palace which he 
once had occupied ; a voice that " reasons of right- 
eousness, temperance, and judgment to come;" that 
sometimes catches the ear in the momentary stillness 
of the day, and still more in the dead of the night, be- 
fore deep sleep falleth upon men ; but, like the mur- 
mur of a ghost, men cannot bear to listen to it, but 
hurry out of its reach. And thus does conscience 
sometimes remind us of former days, of hours of sin, 
of time squandered away that can never be recovered, 
of an impure heart, of a worldly and carnal mind, and 
proves that it is a remnant of God ; for it tells us, 
" that for all these things, God will bring us into 
judgment." 

But, alas ! it does no more than reproach and con- 
demn ; for, alas! it cannot change an old heart; it 
cannot " create a new spirit within us f it cannot 
raise our affections from the dust upon which we are 
treading ; it cannot fill us with heavenly dispositions ; 
it cannot make us look forward with delight to scenes 
of future glory. Alas ! this is beyond the power of 
conscience ; it serves to reproach, but cannot restore ; 



208 SERMON III. 

— it is but a ghost among the ruins,, — but a voice 
among the tombs ; it is a poor remnant of what once 
was a living image of the Almighty ; enough to show 
that it once existed, and that now it is broken. 

But again, observe him gifted with the power of 
speech, the power of communicating thought for 
thought, and circulating knowledge, and truth, and 
love through all his fellow- creatures. Just conceive 
for one moment what he would be without it ; how 
black, how ignorant, how dreary, how comfortless ! — 
where would then be mutual assistance, mutual ad^ 
vice, the communication of knowledge, the interchange 
of affection ? Observe man, the only created being 
endowed with this glorious faculty, and then consider 
the use that he has made of it. Listen to the curses 
and the blasphemy against the very Being who be- 
stowed it, who gave it, that it might rise before the 
throne in hallelujahs. Then hear the falsehood, the 
deceit, the prevarication issuing through the channel 
where truth should for ever flow ; then hear the im- 
pure and wanton jest, that circulates poison, and 
nurses and assists the natural corruption of the heart, 
when (God knows !) it has enough to corrupt and bru- 
talise it within ; then listen to the scandal, the ma- 
lice, the invective, and the recrimination, upon the 
tongue to which God gave the eloquence of affection 
and benevolence, and the music of pity and consola- 
tion ; then attend to the lips that can be eloquent and 
voluble on every subject but one, — that can descant 
on the market and its prices, on the world and its 



SERMON III. 209 

fashions and its politics, nay, on every little impulse 
of the feelings, and every fine-spun sentiment of the 
mind ; but if the great God intrudes into conversa- 
tion, his ways or his dispensations, his mercies and his 
loving kindnesses, the tide begins to ebb, the glow of 
society dies away, and the cold and heartless silence 
betrays that an unwelcome stranger has made his 
appearance. Truly this is a magnificent fragment of 
that illustrious image ; enough to show that it once 
existed, and that now it is shivered and broken. 

Alas ! it is no wonder that when God looked again 
upon the earth, and saw the wickedness of man, that 
he said, " I will destroy man from off the face of the 
earth," Nor was he deterred from doing so by the 
multitude that it overwhelmed in ruin. In those days, 
no doubt, they compared themselves with one an- 
other; no doubt they said, 'We are all tolerably 
c alike ; none of us is singularly wicked ; if God pu- 
c nishes me, he must punish the rest of mankind along 
f with me.' But did God therefore withhold his 
hand? No; but it is stated as the very reason of 
his vengeance, that all the earth was sunk in wicked- 
ness ; and their guilt was aggravated by the very cir- 
cumstance that they countenanced each other in their 
sin, and thus joined in a kind of deliberate rebellion 
against his authority. 

But, even leaving punishment out of the account, 
conceive what must be the natural consequence of 
having, as it were, disappointed the object of our 
creation, and of having run counter to God's original 

p 



210 SERMON III. 

intention. Must not the natural end of those things 
be ruin ? But,, " Thou turnest man to destruction : 
" again thou sayest, Come again, ye children of men." 
The Creator said once more, " Let us make man in 
our own image ;" and he came down himself from 
heaven to create him a second time. He left his 
bright and glorious abode on high, for us poor and 
wretched wanderers, who had not only forsaken his 
good and pleasant paths, but had actually forgotten 
that we needed one to bring us back again ; who were 
so degenerated as to have forgotten our degeneracy ; 
and he came to create us anew, and he came as ec a 
man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief:" that we 
might once more become the image of God, he was 
contented to come himself in the image of man ; and 
by that stupendous atonement upon the cross, — by 
that sacrifice, which will be regarded with astonish- 
ment by men and angels to all eternity, he has accom- 
plished his new work of creation. We are told that 
" our old man was crucified with him;" so that we 
are to " put off, according to the former conversation, 
" the old man, which is corrupt according to the de- 
Ci ceitful lusts, and put on the new man, which after 
" God is created in righteousness and true holiness." 
We are declared expressly to be " God's workmanship, 
created anew in Christ Jesus, unto good works" 

But how is it, you will say, that the death of Christ 
becomes second life to us ? How is it that his suffer- 
ings can create us anew? By this one sacrifice he 
bore in his own person the punishment due to our 



SERMON III, 211 

sins. " He was wounded for our transgressions, he 
" was bruised for our iniquities : the chastisement of 
u our peace was upon him ; and by his stripes we are 
" healed. All we, like sheep, had gone astray, we 
" turned every one to his own way ; and the Lord 
" hath laid on him the iniquity of us all." By this 
satisfaction to his justice, the communication was once 
more opened between God and man ; for we are told, 
" That God was in Christ, reconciling the world unto 
" himself, not imputing their trespasses ;" and through 
his merits, his atonement, and his intercession, the 
gift of the Holy Spirit was procured, by which the 
image of God may be again stamped upon our hearts, 
and our souls moulded into a resemblance to Him 
" who is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity." Thus 
does God again " breathe into his nostrils the breath 
of life, and man again become a living soul." Him 
that cometh to this good Creator, he cc will in no wise 
cast out f " for as God liveth, he willeth not the 
death of a sinner/' 

But we must come deeply sensible of our want of 
a renewing spirit and of a purifying influence. God 
will not cast his pearls before swine, " lest they 
trample them under foot." We must learn our lost 
and ruined state. We must feel that our natural hearts 
have wandered far from him who is the only fountain 
of all that is good ; that we have followed our own 
ways and our own imaginations, and that we are un- 
able to recover ourselves from the broad way that 
leadeth to destruction ; for it is not a few partial 



212 SERMON III. 

changes, a few sins now and then forsaken, that can 
restore us to our former glorious state. Alas ! the 
poison has sunk deeper ; it has mixed with our heart's 
blood, and penetrated into our vitals. If we do not 
feel thus naturally corrupt and helpless, and that we 
need a higher power than our own to change, to 
strengthen, and to purify — let us save ourselves ; let 
us not call ourselves by the name of Christ ; let us act 
a bold, manly, and a consistent part ; renounce him, 
and declare honestly that by our own strength will 
we stand or fall ; that by ourselves we are willing to 
encounter the burning eye of God ; that we are able 
to deliver ourselves from that justice which demands 
blood for sin ; and that we can change and purify our 
own hearts, and of ourselves mould them into the 
image of the Almighty. 

But if we feel ourselves truly unable either to 
escape from punishment or to qualify ourselves for 
heaven, let us come with an humble and contrite 
spirit to Him who died that he might give gifts unto 
men, and submit ourselves to his creative influence. 
" A bruised reed will he not break." " He will gather 
the lambs with his arms." As we look to him with 
prayer, and converse with him through his Gospel, we 
shall find new and better dispositions growing within 
us, — holier habits of thought collecting and increasing, 
— a new interest excited within us about things re- 
garded before with indifference, — a power over sin 
that is an earnest of future triumphs, — a pleasure in 
studying the divine dispensations, and disco verin 



■ 



SERMON III. 213 

fresh traces of wisdom and goodness where others see 
nothing but what is gloomy and unintelligible, — and 
an activity in the fulfilment of every duty to God and 
man. And then " to him that hath shall be given ;" 
— our progress in grace and obedience will every day 
become easier and more delightful, — our perceptions 
of future and invisible things will become more lively, 
and our affections will be set upon things eternal in 
the heavens, where Christ sitteth at the right hand of 
God. Those subjects of thought which we before con- 
sidered cheerless and tiresome, will wear a beauty that 
was before unperceived : — and the obedience that be- 
fore appeared irksome and insupportable, will become 
our light yoke and our easy burden. We shall be 
able to measure our advance, by keeping our eyes 
steadfastly fixed upon him, who came to new-create 
us by his Spirit into the image of God ; who was him- 
self the express image of the Father, softened down 
to human comprehension and human imitation. By 
keeping our eye upon that holy and divine Redeemer 
as our pattern, and as the source of our means of con- 
forming to it ; by constantly asking ourselves the so- 
lemn and hmniliating question — u Is it thus that 
" Christ would have thought, or said, or acted? — or 
•'• is this the temper by which he would have been 
" actuated?" — can we alone attain even the faintest 
resemblance. However short we may be of our di- 
vine original, we must not dare to take any human 
i pattern. Even the devoted Paul said, u Be ye fol- 
lowers of me as I am of Christ." Divine and delight- 



214 



SERMON III. 



ful Redeemer ! who didst turn from thy bright course 
among the stars unto the valley of the shadow of 
death for our sake, — suffer us not — surfer us not to 
think it too much to turn from the broad way that 
leadeth to destruction, to meet thee in this career of 
mercy ! Surfer us not to look at thee only to hate 
thy beams, that bring to our remembrance what we 
were — from what height fallen ! but change us by thy 
light and thy Spirit to thine own glorious image; 
" and when we awake up after thy likeness, we shall 
iC be satisfied with it." 



SERMON IV. 



Matthew, xiii. 44. 

The kingdom of Heaven is like unto treasure hid in a field, 
the which when a man hath found, he hideth, and for joy 
thereof goeih, and selleth all that he hath, and buyeth that 
field. 

This is our Saviour's account of the kingdom of 
Heaven. The great body of mankind appear to differ 
with him in opinion. They do not seem to agree with 
him in either of the two points that he has here stated ; 
— neither acknowledging, that the kingdom of Heaven 
is a hidden treasure ; nor admitting that, even when 
discovered, it may cost a man all that he has to attain 
it. That they are of a different opinion from our Sa- 
viour upon these subjects scarcely requires a proof. 
The case between them may be briefly stated thus : — 
According to him, the kingdom of Heaven is a hidden 
treasure. Salvation is a treasure which is naturally 
none of ours. Among all the riches that nature has 
scattered over the surface of the world, it is not to be 
found. — If we would find it, we must turn our back 
upon them all ; and seek for it as if we were diving 
into the bowels of the earth. But what says the 
world? So far from regarding everlasting life as a 



216 SERMON IV. 

hidden treasure which they must use all their power 
and diligence to explore, they consider it to be some- 
thing that they may stoop for in their hurry through 
life, without either checking their speed, or turning 
aside either to the right hand or to the left. If they 
really and soberly believed that eternal life was some- 
thing that was naturally hidden from them, and 
which they must turn out of their way to look for, or 
perish for ever, — it seems impossible that they could 
go wandering up and down the face of the earth in 
search of other objects, with the weight of such a con- 
viction as this hanging heavy upon their souls. With 
such a thought as this following them, like a spectre, 
through life, — gliding by them during the business of 
the day, — glaring upon them in the repose of the 
night, — what strength or what spirits would these 
wretched men have to go on snatching those things, 
the end of which they knew to be death ? 

And yet, look back at the world from which you 
have now for a few moments escaped, and to which 
you will soon, in a few moments, return ; and recol- 
lect, — how many do you imagine have ever stopped 
short in the middle of their career, and for even one 
day have looked round for salvation; — who have 
stepped aside out of the world as it was sweeping 
along, and have returned to seek for the solitary spot 
where the treasures of mercy and immortality were 
concealed ? Nay, rather, how many do you recollect, 
who were following every object of human pursuit 
except this one — that is worth them all? Recollect 



SERMON IV. 217 

how many of them would look at you as a strange 
mam who had taken up wild and fanciful notions, if 
you were to ask them a plain question,, that shall be 
put to them at the day of judgment, — "Did you seek 
first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness?" 
Truly, if they seek a kingdom of Heaven, it cannot 
be that of which our Saviour speaks, for " that is a 
hidden treasure :" truly, if they find a kingdom of 
Heaven, it must be a new one of their own discovery, 
— they must stumble upon it in the highway, and 
meet it in the markets ; but let them not look for that 
which he has promised, for, alas ! it lies not in the 
wide gate, and the broad way; for, if we believe him, 
they lead to destruction. And if you will trust for 
salvation to your generous Redeemer, who paid him- 
self, body and blood, for you, rather than to the hol- 
low-hearted world, that would wring the last pittance 
from your dying grasp before it was cold, you must 
retire from the broad and beaten track where the 
world is driving along in pursuit of all its vanities, 
and seek for the treasure that God has buried ; and, 
as you approach the spot, be sure to put your shoes 
from off your feet, for " the place where you stand is 
holy ground:" you must leave earth and earthly 
things behind you, for, remember, you are looking for 
the kingdom of Heaven. 

Observe the reason why the treasure is hidden. Is 
it that your Almighty Father is unwilling that you 
should attain it ? Is it that he takes pleasure in your 
destruction ? Or is it that he apprehends his riches 



218 SERMON IV. 

may be expended, his beneficence impoverished, his 
store of mercies exhausted ? Is he too unmindful of 
you to save you ? " Behold he makes his sun to rise 
on the just and the unjust/' No : but if we observe 
the circumstances under which this very parable was 
delivered, we shall learn why salvation is hidden from 
us : it was related, amongst many other parables, to 
a vast multitude that covered the sea-shore. The 
subjects of which these parables treated were the most 
awful upon which the human mind and the human 
heart can be exercised: — the laws, the judgments, 
the dispensations of God : the duty of man in this 
state ; his lot in that which is to come. Yet from 
this multitude the kingdom of God was hid ; they un- 
derstood not what he spake ; though u they had eyes, 
u they saw not ; though they had ears, they heard 
e< not ; and their hearts were hardened/' The great 
truths of religion were sounding around them on every 
side — and they attended not; for they looked for an 
earthly prince, who should bring them riches, power, 
and dominion ; they looked for the kingdom of this 
world — they looked not for the kingdom of heaven ; 
and therefore was that treasure hid from them, be- 
cause they understood not its value; they did not 
feel it to be a treasure. No : God will not " cast his 
pearls before swine/' But come to him with a pro- 
found sense of the value of an immortal soul ; come 
to him with humble anxiety to learn where your trea- 
sure is buried, and he will not be wanting to you. If 
you lack wisdom, ask him ; for " he giveth to all men 



SERMON IV, 219 

liberally, and upbraideth not." Take your Bible on 
the one side,, and your heart on the other, and weigh 
them well together. Look in the one at the holiness 
of God ; look in the other at the corruption and insig- 
nificance of man ; then prostrate yourself before your 
Father, and beseech him to show you the way of sal- 
vation, — and he will not be wanting. There will be 
angels with you at midnight, who will descend upon 
you while you are studying his will, and tell you that 
ei for you is born a Saviour." He will command his 
star to rise for you in the East, and it shall stand over 
the place where your treasure lies. There go, and ye 
shall find that " which cannot be gotten for gold, nei- 
" ther shall silver be weighed for the price thereof. It 
" cannot be valued with the gold of Ophir, with the 
" onyx, or the sapphire ; no mention shall be made 
" of corals or of pearls ; and the topaz of Ethiopia 
" cannot equal it." Take care how you undervalue 
this salvation: for remember, and remember again, 
that the reason why this treasure is hidden from any 
man is, — because he does not feel its value. If the 
kingdom of Heaven be hid from you ; if Christ's atone- 
ment be not yours ; if he be still buried, and be not 
risen for you ; the reason is because you do not know 
its value ; for, to them that believe, u Christ crucified 
is the power of God, and the wisdom of God." 

How then are we to know and feel its value ? The 
first thing is evidently this ; to know and feel what 
sin is, in all its awful enormity : for is it not evident, 
that we cannot estimate and embrace salvation unless 



220 SERMON IV. 

we are profoundly sensible of the danger from which 
we are saved ? Consult your own common-sense. Is 
it not folly to say, that you believe in Jesus Christ, 
and hope to be saved by his blood from your sins, 
when you are not fully sensible of the guilt of those 
sins, and the punishment they would draw down upon 
your head ? Be assured God will not save those who 
do not deeply feel, from the very bottom of their 
hearts, their want of a Saviour. If you do not feel it, 
save yourself: but if you think that too bold an un- 
dertaking, then away to your own heart, and know 
what it is to have offended Almighty God, and to 
have called for nothing less than the blood of Christ 
to purify it ! Consider only the things you have 
done; consider all your direct and deliberate trans- 
gressions of the Law of God, against which your own 
conscience exclaimed loudly, but in vain : consider all 
these things that you have left undone which you 
ought to have done, all your silent omissions ! — sins, 
many of which stole by you softly, without noise or 
alarm to your conscience, because you did not keep it 
alive and vigilant to your immortal concerns ; — awful 
and treacherous sins ! because they gather as you 
count them, so that you know not how many are 
behind : but, above all, consider that sin, which is the 
fountain of all other sin, the disposition of mind from 
which they flow, — the habitual forgetfulness of God; 
the everlasting and uninterrupted transgression of the 
great Law of God to man, — " Thou shalt love the 
" Lord thy God with all thy heart, with all thy soul, 



SERMON IV. 221 

ff and with all thy strength." Then, when you have 
weighed those sins, and fallen down prostrate under 
the weight of them before your gracious Kedeemer, 
smiting your breast and saying, " God be merciful to 
me a sinner !" then will you be able to understand 
the value of that treasure which God has bestowed, 
and then indeed will you feel the reason why it is 
buiied and hidden from the rabble who are running 
headlong after riches, and pleasures, and honours, — 
because they do not feel their want of it. 

But though a sense of sin, a broken and contrite 
heart, is the first and indispensable requisite to form- 
ing a just estimate of our redemption, and, therefore, 
to our taking the full advantage of it ; blessed be God ! 
it is not the only one. 

There is> a second requisite behind : and what is it ? 
The words before us will disclose : " Which treasure 
" when a man hath found, for joy thereof he goeth, 
<c and selleth all that he hath, and buyeth that field." 
The first, the necessary, the bitter requisite, is grief; 
grief for those sins that nailed the Son of God to the 
cross, and pierced his side. But the second is joy; 
joy that man cannot give, and man cannot take away. 
Now observe that this joy depends for its very exist- 
ence upon the sorrow that precedes it, and is in pro- 
portion to its extent ; for to say that we shall rejoice 
at a salvation from those sins which caused us no sor- 
row or no alarm, would be truly absurd : and here 
can we see how a Christian s sorrow and a Christian's 
joy go hand in hand; and as " there is more joy in 



222 SERMON IV. 

u Heaven over one sinner that repenteth, than over 
u ninety and nine who need no repentance ;** so is 
there more joy in the breast of that sinner over his 
own repentance, than will ever exist in the breast of 
those who fancy they need none. Let this convince 
ns how poo^ how cold, how hardened are our hearts ! 
for how few of us can really remember to have re- 
joiced over the salvation which Christ has wrought 
for him, with half the delight which he has felt at 
some earthly success, some temporal advantage. Re- 
collect, there will be an hour of your life — the last — 
when the sweetest music that ever reached your ear 
would be the voice that would whisper with an au- 
thority from God, that " yours was the kingdom of 
Heaven/' It would make the blood thrill freely again 
through the frame from which it was just ebbing and 
subsiding: it would make the faint lips colour, and 
utter a gasp of thankfulness, that appeared to have 
been locked in everlasting silence : it would make 
the eyes open with a gleam of joy, that appeared to 
have been closed for ever. Have you felt any thing 
like this ? 

But beware how you mistake that joy which may 
indicate that you have found that treasure. Behold ! 
you will know it by its fruits ; for he who felt that 
joy, " went and sold all that he had, and bought that 
field/' He made no bargain : he did not say, this 
much of the world will I keep, and thus much will I 
resign ; he did not say, I will keep my covetousness, 
but I will resign my sensuality : he did not say, I will 






SERMON IV. 223 

retain my drunkenness, but will surrender my malice 
and revenge: but he comes humbly and devotedly, 
and flings down his vices, his passions, and his preju- 
dices, before the throne of Almighty God, and says, 
u Take all, take every thing, take what thou wilt, 
" and give me that which contains my salvation." 

It is true, men will laugh at his improvidence and 
simplicity ; and when they see him cheerfully relin- 
quishing the riches they so desperately pursue, and 
the pleasures of which they are so fondly enamoured, 
they will exclaim, What a foolish bargain has this 
man made in giving such a fine price for that barren 
field ! — but what will he care when he knows what it 
contains ? Morning and evening will he retire to the 
solitary spot, and beseech his good Father to put a 
holy guard over the place, that no evil may come 
near, to rob him of his hope and his happiness : and 
in the day will he watch, lest he should be plundered 
by that enemy, who knows its value well, for he once 
enjoyed it and has lost it for ever. 

Yet do not conceive that he will remain in listless 
retirement and indolent meditation ; for in that trea- 
sure he will find the armour of righteousness, in which 
he will array himself on the right hand, and on the 
left ; — from that treasure will he take the helmet of 
salvation and place it firmly upon his head: — from 
that will he gird himself with the sword of the Spirit, 
and his feet shall be shod with the preparation of the 
gospel of peace : — and at the time when men are 
fretting themselves about their hollow pleasures — for- 



224 SERMON IV. 

getting perhaps that such a being ever existed, — or 
remembering him only in order to ridicule the silly sa- 
crifice that the poor man had made, — he will come out 
suddenly amongst them, all richly and gorgeously ap- 
parelled, to run his race of faith, and hope, and charity, 
in the eyes of all mankind ; so that men shall look at 
each other aghast, and shall say, as they did of him 
who is the author and giver of all these gifts, — " Is 
not this the son of a man like ourselves ?" Whence 
hath this man all these things? But they cannot 
long mistake whence it proceeds : — when such a light 
shines before men, they cannot but say, " Truly this 
is God's work !" and many may be led to look for 
that treasure, which they see can produce such glo- 
rious riches, 



SERMON V, 



Matthew, x. 28. 

Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy-laden, and 
I will give you rest. 

If an inhabitant of some distant part of the uni- 
verse,— some angel that had never visited the earth, 
had been told that there was a world in which such 
an invitation had been neglected and despised, he 
would surely say : " The inhabitants of that world 
" must be a very happy people ; — there can be but 
" few among them that labour and are heavy-laden ; 
" — no doubt they must be strangers to poverty, sor- 
" row, and misfortune; — the pestilence cannot come 
" nigh their dwellings, neither does death ever knock 
" at their doors; — and, of course, they must be un- 
" acquainted with sin, and all the miseries that are 
" its everlasting companions." 

If such were our case, we might let our Bibles 
moulder into dust, and " refuse to hear the voice of 
" the charmer, charm he never so wisely;" — even of 
him who says, <c Come unto me, and I will give you 
rest." So that the first thing we are naturally led to 
consider in this, as in every other invitation, is the 
kind of persons to whom it is addressed : for if we 

Q 



226 SERMON V. 

do not find that we correspond to the description, it 
would be a waste of time to expend any further con- 
sideration upon the subject. 

It is addressed to those that labour and are heavy- 
laden : so are all the promises of the Gospel. They 
are all made in language of the fondest, the kindest, 
the most affectionate consolation. It is language that 
could not be understood, that would be utterly un- 
meaning, if addressed to those who were perfectly at 
ease in their feelings, and had no weight upon their 
minds. To him that is at ease in his possessions, the 
Gospel speaks in a solemn and hollow voice ; " Thou 
" fool, this night thy soul may be required of thee, 
" and then, whose shall all those things be V But 
to those whose hearts are disquieted within them, it 
speaks in a tone of the softest tenderness, and the 
most enchanting compassion. 

How is the office of our Redeemer described, first 
by the prophet, and afterwards by himself? " The 
*' Spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the 
" Lord hath anointed me to preach good tidings to the 
" meek ; he hath sent me to bind up the broken- 
-hearted, — to proclaim liberty to the captives, and 
" the opening of the prison to them that are bound ; 
« — to comfort all that mourn; — to give unto them 
" beauty for ashes, — the oil of joy, for mourning, — 
" the garment of praise, for the spirit of heaviness/' 

Now this is what our Saviour came to perform ; it 
is the formal description of his office ; and you per- 
ceive he is sent to the broken-hearted, — to the cap- 



- 



SERMON V. 227 

tives, — to them that are bound. — to them that mourn, 
— to them that are in the spirit of heaviness. At one 
time he is beautifully represented as speaking " a 
word in season to him that is weary f at another, he 
is described as " the Sun of Righteousness, rising with 
healing on his wings ;" He opened his ministry with 
blessings " on the poor in Spirit ;" with blessings " on 
them that mourn." He answered the accusations of 
the proud men who were at ease in their possessions, 
and who felt not heavy-laden, that he " came not to 
" those that were whole, but to those that were sick ;" 
and then he points to the humble publican who came 
heavy-laden to the house of God, so that he could not 
lift up his eyes unto heaven, under his burden, — and 
that man found rest unto his soul. And when that 
Redeemer was about to depart, — that Redeemer, 
whose office it was to bind up the broken-hearted, to 
comfort them that mourn, to give rest to the heavy- 
laden, — what did he promise ? " Another Comforter, 
that should abide with us for ever." Such is the 
strain of the Gospel from beginning to end. It is the 
ministry of consolation, that therefore, from its very 
nature, speaks only to them that need to be consoled. 
The Gospel is " a word in season to him that is 
weary ;" therefore it speaks only to him that is weary, 
to him that is seeking rest and rinding none ; and to 
him it brings relief, refreshment, and repose. It finds 
you a bruised reed, — it props and supports you. It 
finds you weeping, — and it wipes away all tears from 
your eyes. It finds you fearful, cheerless, disquieted. 



228 SERMON V. 

— and it gives you courage, hope, and tranquillity. 
There is a wilderness before her, and the garden of 
Eden behind ; before her is lamentation, and mourn- 
ing, and woe : behind her, come thanksgiving and the 
voice of melody. 

Thus is the Gospel an invitation to those that are 
heavy-laden ; and it is the business of every man to 
ask himself solemnly the question — " Is he one of 
those who are invited V If you be one of those who 
labour and are heavy-laden, — come now, come freely, 
and you shall find rest unto your souls ! (We shall 
presently consider how you are to come, so as to ac- 
cept this invitation.) 

But if you are not heavy-laden, ask yourself the 
cause. Is it because you have already accepted this 
invitation, and have already found rest unto your 
soul ? If this be the case, ' ' good luck have thou with 
" thine honour ! ride on, because of the word of truth, 
" of meekness, and of righteousness T 

But is your mind at ease ? is there no weight upon 
your spirits ? You are, perhaps, at rest ; but it may 
not be the rest that Christ has promised* Then this 
invitation is not to you ; it is to the heavy-laden : 
the Gospel has no promises for you ; for its promises 
are those of comfort and consolation. If you are con- 
tented with this fearful ease, " sleep on, and take 
your rest !" perhaps you will not awake until the 
sound of the last trumpet. But if this is too terrible 
a resolution, then rouse yourself this instant. But 
you may say, " How am I to become one of those 



SERMON V. 229 

u who are here invited ? Am I to go wandering over 
Fj the world in search of some burden that may quali- 
" fy me to accept this invitation ? Am I to invent 
" some new kind of grief for myself, — to strike out 
" some unnatural kind of uneasiness ? Where is this 
" heavy burden ? where is this sorrow, without which 
" I cannot come to him?" — " Behold it is nigh thee, 
" even in thy mouth and in thy heart." It is in thy 
mouth : — there is scarcely a day of our lives that we 
do not utter or hear some complaint against mankind, 
and the world, and the inconstancy of human affairs. 
Where will you turn yourself without meeting a man 
to salute you with a murmur ? to tell you that some- 
thing has gone wrong with him — that something is 
not as it should be ? Where will you find a man that 
has not some thorn in his side ? The world is full of 
these cowardly and despicable complaints; — and no 
one dreams of a neglected Saviour, that stands ready 
to give you rest from them all. Eeally and truly do 
you mean to say that, when you are asked at the day 
of judgment why you did not come to him who offer- 
ed rest to the heavy-laden, you will be able to answer 
with sincerity — " I was too happy to come to him ; 
I felt no burden." But it would not be in thy mouthy 
if ii; were not also in thy heart. 

Consider the words : they are set in opposition to 
the words " yoke and burden," a few verses below ; 
where Christ offers his yoke to those that labour, and 
his burden to those that are heavy-laden : so that the 
words imply bondage and toil. It means : — Come to 



230 SERMON V. 

me, all" ye that labour under any galling yoke, and all 
ye that are laden with any heavy burdens, and I will 
give you rest. 

First : are you one who are in the service of any 
sin against which you know that the wrath of God is 
registered ? Are you in bondage to any of your lusts 
or appetites, and labouring under its yoke, so that it 
turns and drives you, like one of your own cattle, 
wherever it pleases, so that it does what it likes with 
you, and says — " Go, and you go ; do this, and you 
do it V and do you afterwards feel the heavy burden 
of your own contempt and of a guilty conscience, — a 
burden that makes you feel you have degraded your- 
self to the rank of a brute, that can be turned with a 
bit and a bridle, — a burden that weighs you down 
and prevents you from looking up to Heaven like a 
man, lest you see wrath written against you, and 
fiery indignation ? Or are you one who are in the 
service of the world, fretting yourself under a yoke of 
toils, and cares, and watchings, and long calculations ; 
and have you felt the burden of many a bitter disap- 
pointment ; and at all events, the weight upon your 
mind, that an hour will come when you will be called 
away from all the things upon which you have set 
your affections; when you will find that you have 
made your treasure upon earth, and will have to leave 
your heart with it behind you ? Or are you one who 
has been trying to earn your own way to Heaven — 
toiling to make up with Heaven a long account of 
debtor and creditor ; and have you discovered that you 




SERMON V. 231 

have all this time been heaping an insupportable bur- 
den upon your back ; that the law is spiritual, but 
that you are carnal, sold under sin ? 

Just consider how the apostle discovered this bur- 
den in himself. " I know that in me, that is, in my 
" flesh, dwelleth no good thing ; for, to will, is present 
u with me ; but how to perform that which is good, 
" I find not. I find a law, that when I would do 
" good, evil is present with me." " I delight in the 
" law of God after the inward man, but I see another 
" law in my members, warring against the law of my 
% mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law of 
" sin which is in my members." Then he exclaims, 
" wretched man that I am ! who shall deliver me 
" from the body of this death V He felt the burden 
hanging heavy upon his soul : during all this time he 
had been engaged, as it were, in putting it into the 
balances, and weighing it ; and he found it so awfully 
oppressive, that he cries out, " wretched man that I 
" am ! who shall deliver me from this burden of sin ?" 

And do you feel nothing like this in your own 
heart? Do you find no law of God, and no law of 
sin ? A law of God, setting before you what he loves ; 
and a law of sin, leading you to say and do what he 
hates ? Nay, how often have you yourself admitted 
that your conscience is an awful burden, by your at- 
tempts to shake it off; to get rid of its load, to invent 
some contrivance for lessening its weight ; leaning 
your burden against a shattered wall, which one day 
or other will give way, and your burden bear you 



282 SERMON V. 

down to the ground. How often are you fond of 
throwing in false weights, for the purpose of deceiving 
yourself as to the real state of your conscience ! 

But there is one remarkable consideration that is 
fully sufficient of itself to convince us that we have a 
load, and a very heavy one, hanging upon our hearts 
and our consciences : it is simply this, — our unwilling- 
ness to examine them. There is not one of us who 
does not feel it to be a loathsome, a disgusting, a most 
painful, and a most humiliating task. Only observe 
with what eagerness we avoid it ; how many excuses 
we make in order that we may escape an acquaintance 
with our own hearts and an inquiry into our own con- 
sciences. Now this is a positive proof that we know 
full well the inquiry would turn against us. It is the 
testimony of our hearts against themselves at the very 
outset. Why should you be afraid of examining your- 
self, if you did not know well that you would find a 
heavy burden within ? Just consider what a delight- 
ful occupation would self-examination become if we 
had any reason to suppose that our hearts would 
make a favourable report ? Every man loves to hear 
his own praises, if he believes them to be true. if 
we had any idea that our own heart would praise us, 
there would not be a more delightful task upon earth 
than that of examining ourselves. How eagerly should 
we steal away to our closets and our Bibles, if we 
thought that we should come away satisfied with our- 
selves, approving ourselves, assured that all was safe 
within ! How happy would you be in weighing your 



SERMON V. 233 

heart if you thought you should find it really a light 
and an easy one! How happy would you feel in 
looking at it over and over, and again and again, if 
you thought you should find it good, and pure, and 
holy! What a luxury would it be to start a new 
virtue at every step of our inquiry, to indulge in the 
contemplation of our own goodness, and the applause 
of our own consciences; and what a beautiful thing 
would the Bible appear to us if we thought that at 
every page we turned we read our own salvation ! 
then, what must be the real state of the case, when 
we would study any thing rather than the book of 
God, and would plunge into any society rather than 
the company of our own hearts ! Is it not a proof 
that, in the one, we know we should find the evidence 
of our guilt ; and, in the other, the registry of our con- 
demnation? This plain and simple fact, that we 
would do any thing rather than examine our own 
hearts, is a sufficient evidence of the corruption of our 
nature; — we are afraid to look at it: a sufficient 
proof of the heavy burden within; — we are afraid to 
weigh it. 

So that you perceive, that when God invites only 
those that labour and are heavy-laden, he does not 
call upon you to invent any new kind of burden or 
sorrow for yourself, but merely to know and feel your 
real state. Nothing can be fairer: he just requires 
that you should be fully sensible of the state in which 
you are, before he condescends to save you from it ; 
that you should feel your burden, before he con- 



234? SERMON V. 

descends to remove it. Just conceive what a mockery 
it would be to talk to a man of comforting him for 
sorrows that he never felt, and of relieving him from a 
burden that he never endured ! This is plain com- 
mon-sense : may our common-sense never rise to tes- 
tify against us at the day of judgment ! 

Nay more, our very pleasures are a burden to us — 
for how many of them are the causes of pain, of sor- 
row, of remorse ! Upon how many of them do we 
look back with disgust, after the enjoyment of them 
has ceased ! And then, last of all, are they not 
bounded by death ? This is the gulf in which they 
are all swallowed up. So that the more of these plea- 
sures we shall have enjoyed, the more we shall have 
set our affections upon them; the greater will be our 
unwillingness to part with them; the greater will be 
the burden we have been heaping upon death-beds. 

We have now considered to whom this invitation 
is made; it is to those that labour and are heavy- 
laden. Who is there that does not feel he is included 
in the invitation? The next thing to be considered 
is, how it is to be accepted ? — " Come unto me." 
Though all these promises are made to those who are 
heavy-laden, it is that they may come : if they come 
not, all is lost ! 

It is plain, then, that the first step in coming to 
him must be a full and perfect reliance upon his power 
and his willingness to give you rest: and who can 
doubt his power — his power, who is the son of God ? 
who first gained the victory over the grave himself, to 



SERMON V. 235 

show that death should have no dominion over those 
whom he protected ! 

And who can doubt his willingness to save ? Who, 
that looks for one moment at the cross, can dare to 
doubt it. ! if we were but half as willing to 
saved as he is to save us, which of us would not de- 
part this day redeemed ? Only observe how he who 
makes the promises, beseeches, entreats, implores you 
to come to him. ! if we were half as earnest in 
our prayers to him as he is in his prayers to us, which 
of us would not this day find rest unto his soul ? 

But though perfect is the first step that leads to this 
rest, — recollect it is but the first : it must be imme- 
diately followed up by others. For the next verse 
immediately proceeds : " Take my yoke upon you, 
" and learn of me ; for I am meek and lowly of heart/' 
Now, to take a person s yoke upon you is to become 
his servant : so that the meaning is, you must take 
me for your master, and learn of me. You must be 
willing to take off that heavy burden, the yoke of 
sin, the yoke of the world, and allow him to put his 
in its place. You must fling down at his feet your 
pride, your drunkenness, your impurity, your avarice, 
your worldly-mindedness. You will make no bargains 
with him for keeping one sin, and letting another go : 
this would be mere traffic; not taking him for your 
master : it would be endeavouring to serve two mas- 
ters. 

The only way of being sure that you are coming 
to Christ is, — are you coming all to him? Are you 



236 SERMON V. 

keeping any sin to yourself? Are you keeping your 
favourite sin ? This is the shortest and the only sure 
trial. If you are not surrendering that, be assured 
you are attempting to serve two masters, — Christ and 
that favourite sin, whatever it may be. The only 
way of trying yourself is this : — Do you allow Christ 
to obtain a mastery over all your vices? Do you 
make him the fountain of all your virtues ? Do you 
avoid all evil for his sake ? And above all, is he the 
bright example that you follow ? Do you take some 
poor human standard of excellence, and put that in 
the place of Christ ? Or do you look to him, not only 
for salvation, but for example? Is his lowly and 
meek humility, his pure and holy conversation, his 
active and benevolent charity, his mild and gentle 
patience, his fervent and constant piety, his spirit of 
mercy and forgiveness, — are these your pattern of 
perfection to which you seek to be conformed ? 

Now the last thing to be considered is, the rest 
which he bestows; — in what does it consist, and how 
does he bestow it? The two following verses con- 
tain a full explanation : « Take my yoke upon you, 
" and learn of me/' You perceive it is in the exchange 
of yokes and burdens that this rest consists; — in tak- 
ing off the uneasy yoke and the heavy burden, and 
taking in its place Christ's easy yoke and light burden : 
<c Take my yoke/' 

Now, what is Christ's yoke ? " He that loveth me 
keepeth my commandments :" and we are told by the 
same apostle, " His commandment is not grievous; 






SERMON V. 237 

and the reason is, because we keep his commandments 
from a principle of love. It is not that we wear his 
yoke and take his burden in order, like a hireling or 
a slave, to earn our own rest and salvation, but it is 
the free service of warm, and earnest, and humble 
gratitude ; a service of love that, after doing all, makes 
us willing to exclaim, " we are unprofitable servants K? 
It is because we serve one who is meek and lowly of 
heart, anxious to teach us by the influence of his 
Spirit how to find his yoke easy and his burden light ; 
how to find it delightful to do the will of his Father 
which is in Heaven, and thus to resemble our divine 
Master ; so that, instead of being servants and slaves, 
we become the friends and the brethren of our Mas- 
ter, and find his service perfect freedom : our obedi- 
ence is not the means of our procuring our rest, but is 
the rest itself 

The blessed Saviour always administers to those 
who come to him, with heart and soul, both the means 
of fulfilling his will and of finding it sweet, easy, and 
delightful. He teaches us and enables us to do it 
from humble love and earnest gratitude; to look to 
him for fresh supplies of spiritual strength ; and, when- 
ever we are weary and faint by the way, to turn aside 
to him, where he stands by the fountain of living 
waters and gives freely to all that are athirst ; and 
then with fresh strength we raise our light burden, and 
go on our way rejoicing. It is true, men choose to 
consider Christ as a hard task-master, and his blessed 
service as gloomy and severe : but to these men there 



238 SERMON V. 

are two very short answers: first, that it is only to 
those that labour and are heavy-laden that this is ad- 
dressed, — to those who feel an insupportable load upon 
their souls and their consciences; and to them the 
exchange is indeed delightful: but if these men feel 
themselves perfectly at their ease, if they are happy in 
their present state, — they are very welcome to take 
their own ease. Secondly, that the service of Christ 
always proceeds from a motive of earnest and humble 
gratitude, or it is no service at all. It is not so many 
separate and detached acts of service; but it comes 
warm and entire from a holy and sacred affection that 
makes it a service of perfect freedom, 



SERMON VI. 



Matthew, xi. 12. 

They that be whole need not a physician^ but they that 
are sick. 

We may remember that this was the answer of 
Christ to the Pharisees when they reproached him 
With admitting sinners into his society ; and it would, 
therefore, at first appear that they did not conceive 
they were sinners themselves when they ventured to 
bring such an accusation against him. And yet this 
seems hardly possible: blind and self-righteous as 
they were, we can scarcely imagine that any man 
could obtain such a victory over his conscience, or 
bring the art of self-deception to such perfection, as to 
fancy that he had never sinned ! 

Now, to us, it must appear one of the strangest 
things in the world how any man could entertain the 
least doubt upon the subject. . If a man were to tell 
us that he was not a sinner, we would consider it a 
sign — not of innocence, but of derangement. God 
knows ! many a man seems to pass through life as 
if he were walking in his sleep ; and sin and righte- 
ousness appear nearly alike to him : he seldom opens 



240 SERMON VI. 

his eyes to see things as they really are ; but still it is 
impossible to suppose that he does not often encounter 
a shock that bewilders and alarms him, and stumble 
upon some sin that rouses him to a sense of guilt. 
Really it seems inconceivable that any man pos- 
sesses the art of self-deception to so ruinous a degree. 
Our Saviour's answer may lead to the true state of 
the case : " They that be whole need not a physician, 
but they that are sick." They did not perceive that 
sin was a disease. They knew, indeed, that they had 
been guilty of several gentle offences, a sin now and 
then; but they had not learnt that it was a disorder 
seated in their very constitution. This seems to have 
been the fatal error of the Pharisees ; the tremendous 
mistake that blinded their eyes so that they saw not, 
and stopped their ears that they heard not. The fact 
is, if they had regarded the soul as they did the body, 
— if they had but reasoned in the one case as in the 
other, it is astonishing what new and alarming views 
would have arisen upon the minds of these men, and 
how many of them we should have found taking the 
lowest seat with him who ate and drank with pub- 
licans and sinners, and gathering up the crumbs that 
fell from the table ! 

If any one of us were now suddenly informed by a 
physician that a deadly malady was at this instant 
preying upon his vitals, that his blood was poisoned, 
and his health undermined, and his constitution falling 
asunder, — he would, doubtless, return to his house in 
no very comfortable state of mind ; he would throw 



SERMON VI. 241 

himself upon his bed, and feed upon the gloomy 
thoughts of approaching dissolution; would begin, 
perhaps, to make his will, and call his friends about 
him to apprise them that he was soon to bid them 
farewell ; and if he felt a joint ache, and his pulse be- 
gin to beat faster or slower, or if he looked in the 
glass and saw his cheek turning pale, and his lip be- 
coming livid, and his eye growing dim, — he would 
say ; Alas ! he told me nothing but the truth ! and 
this is that fearful disease that is to bring me to my 
grave ! And then how would all the little symptoms 
be noted and remembered ; how would the nature and 
the seat of the disease be studied and examined ; and 
if a physician were to drop a hint that the disorder 
was within the reach of his skill, or if there was a 
whisper through the family that something could be 
done, and that hope was not yet to be renounced — the 
very news would be a kind of health to you, and your 
faded and pallid countenance would brighten with an- 
ticipated freshness and renovation ! Now, if a man 
were really convinced that such a disease as this had 
taken possession of his eternal soul, what can we sup- 
pose would be his sensations? If a distant hint, if 
an indistinct murmur were breathed that there was 
something wrong about it; — an eternal thing with 
something wrong about it ! to think that that living 
spirit within us, by which we can hold communion 
with the unseen world and the Father of Spirits, and 
which is destined to wander through eternity, is indis- 
posed and out of order! — what alarm, what jealousy 



242 SERMON VI. 

of inquiry should it excite ! what earnest investigation 
of symptoms ; what anxious search into the nature of 
the complaint and the possibility of a cure ! And yet 
it is astonishing with what perfect composure a man 
not only can hear the voice of Almighty God warning 
him, but can acknowledge that there is no health in 
him, and yet scarcely think it a subject worth his in- 
quiry ! 

Really it is pitiable and melancholy to hear with 
what accuracy a sick man will describe all the marks 
and features of his disorder ; how every passing pain, 
every change, every symptom, and every fluctuation 
of health and strength is treasured up, and amplified, 
and discussed. What a physician does the sick man 
become in his own case! — nay, with what seeming 
pleasure does he dwell upon every circumstance ! with 
what fond and longing eloquence he can expatiate 
upon his pangs and his sufferings, as if he loved them 
because they are his own ! But if you inquire into 
the health of his eternal soul, its sickness, its symp- 
toms, its peculiar constitution, its signs of life and 
death ; all dumb, all languid, all flat and unprofitable ! 
Before we go farther; is not this a sufficient proof 
that all is wrong, — that the spirit within him has 
been left to take care of itself, while the heap of dust 
to which it is attached has excited such an interest 
that every grain of it seems to have been weighed and 
counted ? that it would force itself upon our senses, 
and burst itself upon our notice ! that this myste- 
rious stranger within us could appear to us in some 



SERMON VI. 243 

palpable shape, that we might inspect, and handle, and 
examine it;— that we might be able to feel the beating 
of its pulse, and watch the changes of its complexion ; 
— that we might know when it looked pale, and sick- 
ly, and death-like, and when it wore the fresh and 
rosy hue of health ! But it hides itself from my view, 
— it muffles itself from my observation ; and though I 
can amuse myself with looking at the perishable body 
in which it is contained through a microscope, and 
studying its very infirmities with a fond and melan- 
choly delight, I do not feel a sufficient interest in the 
immortal and unseen spirit within to follow it into its 
hiding-places, and pursue it into its recesses. If we 
went no farther, this is enough to prove that there is 
some fatal disease within — that we do not seem to 
care for the inquiry. 

But, in the next place, when the body is concerned 
we seldom find that we mistake a symptom for the 
disease. Only observe with what scrutinising in-, 
genuity a man will penetrate into the hiding-places in 
his constitution to discover the root and ground of 
some disorder that has shown itself in some external 
sign ! And should not the blind Pharisees have known, 
even of themselves, that it is from within, — " out of 
" the hearts of men proceed evil thoughts, adulteries, 
" fornications, murders, thefts, covetousness, deceit, 
" lasciviousness ;" that all these evil things come from 
within, and " it is out of the abundance of the heart 
" the mouth speaketh." These, sins as they are, 
these, — against which the great God has registered 



244 SERMON VI. 

his wrath, and for all which we shall be brought into 
judgment, — these are, after all, signs and symptoms of 
something worse within. Our evil words and our evil 
deeds are only overflowings of the soul, and do not 
show the depth of the fountain from which they pro- 
ceed. It has, indeed, its ebbs and its flows, like those 
diseases that show themselves at some periods more 
than at others ; but we should make a sad error, if we 
mistook the signs of a complaint for the complaint 
itself. It is often by a slight variation of the pulse, — 
a pain, trifling in itself, a change in the habit or aspect, 
that would hardly be observed unless narrowly exam- 
ined and inspected, that a physician detects a malady 
which is making serious and frightful inroads upon the 
constitution. 

We may at once convince ourselves of this by ima- 
gining ourselves thrown into a thousand situations in 
which we have seen others involved, and from which 
we have been preserved we know not how; and in 
which sins, that have only shown themselves by faint 
and transient flashes, would have burst into a blaze, 
and have raged with the fury of a conflagration. Aw- 
ful and tremendous truth ! that our sins, while they 
are the signs, are not the measures of the sin within ; 
and while they are terrible proofs that it exists, still 
leave us to discover its height and its depth, its length 
and breadth; — they may graduate its tides and fluc- 
tuations, but they leave its depths unfathomed, and 
its shores unexplored. But if some powerful conjec- 
ture of attractions should operate, we know not what 



SERMON VI. 245 

tempests are lurking in its bosom, and ready to burst 
forth. Then, as there are different kinds of bodily, so 
there are of spiritual disorders. You will see some of 
an ardent and fiery constitution, whose complaint will 
show itself by violent signs that cannot be mistaken ; 
and they prove that sin and death are rioting within 
them, and withering their eternal health, by an osten- 
tation of their depravity, by drunkenness or debauch- 
ery, or by blasphemy, riot, or revenge. These men 
have the signs of a raging fever, and they often pro- 
ceed to that degree of derangement and deliriums that 
they actually forget the difference between health and 
sickness, and fancy that all is safe at the moment they 
have attained the height of their disorder ! 

But there are others of a milder temperament, 
where the signs are more silent and more treacherous ; 
where the eye is bright and the countenance is florid, 
and the frame receives no shock, and the nerves re- 
main "composed, and the spirits tranquil; — and yet 
death is feeding upon the vitals ! These are the men 
whose walk in life is generally decent and respectable ; 
but the heart and the affections are fixed on perish- 
able objects; — whose care,- whose hopes, and whose 
dear delight, are things visible, that shall pass away ; 
— souls that feed on ashes, and declare their kindred 
with the worm that perisheth by feeding upon perish- 
able food ; — whose minds represent the tombs to which 
they are approaching, — whited sepulchres, that indeed 
are beautiful outward, but if you look within, you find 
nothing but death ! These persons seem to descend 



246 SEKMON VI. 

into the grave with a fatal gentleness that causes no 
shock to awake them : they waste away by a linger- 
ing consumption, and feel not that they are dwindling, 
and dwindling, into ruin; and they know not that 
" where thy treasure is, there will thy heart be also ;" 
and that therefore, if it be not set upon God and 
Heaven, and immortal things, thy eternal soul is 
wasting into destruction, and the worms are under- 
neath thee, and cover thee ! 

There are numberless varieties of spiritual com- 
plaints ; perhaps equal in number to those of the body, 
which are most emphatically called in Scripture, " the 
plagues of mens hearts." 

But now observe the various excuses we attempt to 
make, the thousand ways in which we endeavour to 
deceive ourselves with respect to the disease of the 
eternal soul within us; and then observe how vain — 
how silly would these appear if they were applied to 
the body. How often will a man make the excuse 
that he was born with the seeds of this corruption, 
and plead this as a reason for cherishing and encou- 
raging it, or at least for neglecting it and allowing it 
to work its own way ! Now what should we think 
of a man who attempted to quiet our fears, when we 
were labouring under a cruel bodily complaint, by 
telling us that it is in the family, and we inherit 
it from our ancestors ? Did it ever save any man's 
life yet? 

' But again: there are men who will mix in that 
society, and advance with the utmost security into 



SERMON VI. 247 

those situations where impurity, sensuality, and a 
worldly and carnal frame of mind are encouraged, and 
where affections are more and more set upon earthly 
pleasures and earthly enjoyments, — and yet they will 
declare that no evil consequences can arise, and that 
they felt no spiritual disadvantage from the indul- 
gence. 

Now, what should we think of a man who should 
tell us, if an infectious complaint were raging around 
us, that we might venture securely into the midst of 
the contagion, and frequent those houses where it pre- 
vailed ? and who should tell us, that if we did not ac- 
tually feel the infection, or the poison, while it was 
mixing with our blood and entering into our veins, we 
might consider ourselves safe, and conclude that the 
effect might not afterwards break forth and carry us 
into our graves ? 

And yet it is thus that we often attempt to deceive 
ourselves both with respect to the existence, the na- 
ture, the danger, and the effects of our spiritual 
diseases; although any man that reasoned, thought, 
and acted in the same way with respect to the body, 
would be considered to have forfeited his claim to the 
attribute of reason, and to have renounced his common 
sense. And then, when one thinks what may be the 
death of an eternal spirit, — what new, what fearful, 
what unknown miseries it has to undergo ! what it 
must be to moulder and waste through all eternity ! 
we cannot dwell upon it — it is too much ! 

But there is a gracious Physician, who comes to 



248 SERMON VI. 

bind up the broken-hearted; — the good Samaritan, 
that stands by the way-side to pour wine and oil into 
our wounds, to minister to our sicknesses, and to heal 
our infirmities. All those who feel the cruel breach 
that sin has made in their health, and who are sensi- 
ble that they cannot recover themselves, may come 
to him — and he will assuredly relieve them. 

Now, when an earthly physician is called in, what 
is the first thing required of the patient ? A perfect 
reliance upon the skill and the good- will of the phy- 
sician. What should we think of that patient who 
felt a disease rioting in his vitals, and should begin to 
analyse the medicines that were administered, and to 
demand an account of the particular mode in which 
they were to effect his cure ? Would not the phy- 
sician be obliged to give him all the information he 
himself possessed before he could explain it ? And is 
it much that the Lord Jesus Christ should demand 
from us that faith which we must necessarily place in 
a human being, or be content to lie down and perish ? 

Just consider how many silly expedients a sick man 
will try where there is the most distant hope of reco- 
very ; and then say, whether you will not trust the 
all-powerful, the all- wise, the all-gracious Being, who 
bore all the sicknesses and infirmities of your bodily 
nature — all for your sake, and submitted to the ago- 
nies of death to deliver you from hopeless ruin ? 

Be assured that, if you really feel the burden of 
your disease, you will not hesitate a moment. Come 
to him with earnest, humble prayer — with a heart at 



SERMON VI. 249 

once penetrated with a sense of its corruptions, and a 
love of the Divine Being who offers to pardon and to 
purify — and assuredly he will not refuse; for he tells 
us specially — that he came not for those that are 
whole, but those that are sick ; and this he himself 
explains in the following verse : — (< I came not to call 
" the righteous, but sinners, to repentance." But here 
he also shows us the nature of the cure ; he came to 
call them to repentance, to a change of mind. 

It must be, of course, by some change in the inner 
man that a radical disease must be exterminated from 
the constitution. It seems as if it were actually out 
of the nature of things that it should be otherwise. 
When the good and benevolent Being vouchsafed to 
entreat his wayward and rebellious people to deliver 
their own soul, he says, " Make you a new heart ; for 
why will you die, house of Israel?" as if death 
were the sure and inevitable consequence of their old 
state, from which it was inconsistent with the natural 
course of things that they could be saved except by 
making a new heart and a right spirit within them. 
But this he is willing to do if we come earnestly and 
humbly to look for it ; for he declares, — Ci I will 
" give my Holy Spirit to them that ask it;" and, " he 
" that spared not his own Son, how shall he not also, 
" with him, freely give us all things !" 

But we must allow him to choose his own way. It 
is generally by producing new habits and tempers of 
mind — new desires and affections, which gain strength 
by degrees, that he effects our cure. We have seen 



250 SERMON VI. 

but few bodily cures effected by any sudden or instan- 
taneous power; and they were generally most subject 
to relapse. 

The good and benign Physician consults our weak- 
ness and our nature at the very time that he under- 
takes to overcome them. How is the cure to be con- 
ducted, from its weak beginning, to health and ma- 
turity ? Now, how would an earthly physician answer 
this question, proposed with respect to a bodily com- 
plaint ? He would say, " by exercise/' Just so the 
new principle implanted within us, — the heavenly 
tempers and exalted affections, — the delight in God 
and things invisible, that is the dawn of health to the 
sick man, is to be cherished and invigorated by a con-r 
stant converse with holy things, and a constant energy 
in the performance of every duty. Consider how the 
great Physician was employed, when he was upbraid- 
ed by the haughty Pharisee, and when he declared 
that he was engaged in the very work of healing those 
who are spiritually sick, and calling sinners to repent- 
ance: he was eating and drinking with the sinners; 
he was engaged in familiar, yet holy conversation with 
them ; and what though he is now far above, out of 
the range of mortal sight ; though he is not now em- 
ployed in working those bodily cures which were faint 
representations of the renovation of a ruined soul; 
although he now no longer walks in our streets, letting 
his blessed shadow fall upon our infirmities as he 
passes along, — yet his Word and his Spirit are still 
with us- — the Spirit which he sent as his substitute, 



SERMON VI. 251 

which is to aid and invigorate our prayers; and the 
Word that is a substitute for that divine conversation, 
by which he spoke health to the sinner's soul, while 
he sat at meat with them. And that Word is won- 
derfully adapted to all varieties of constitutions, and 
the several degrees of spiritual health they may have 
attained ; for " all Scripture is given by inspiration of 
u God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for 
" correction, for instruction in righteousness, that the 
" man of God may be perfect, thoroughly furnished 
" unto all good works." 



SERMON VII. 



1 Corinthians, vi. 20. 
Ye are bought with a price. 

The use that St. Paul makes of these words is as 
remarkable as the words themselves. Some time after 
he had left the Corinthians, he was informed that 
many of them, while they still professed to be Chris- 
tians, had fallen away from the purity of the Gospel 
which he had preached. They no longer trembled, 
when the man was gone who used to reason among 
them " of righteousness, temperance, and judgment to 
" come." They relapsed into former habits with an 
appetite that seemed to have been sharpened and in- 
creased by the self-denial to which they had for a time 
submitted; and the evil spirit, which had gone out 
for a season, said, " I will return to my house whence 
" I came out ; and he took other spirits more wicked 
" than himself, and went in, and dwelt there ; and 
" the last state of many of those men was worse than 
" the first." St. Paul remarks, that many vices, such 
as extortions, strife, envy, and revenge, were gaining 
fearful ground upon them : many of them indulged in 
gluttony, in drunkenness, in debauchery, in adultery, 
to an extent that had been before unknown* They 



SERMON VII. 253 

prostituted their bodies to intemperance, and their 
immortal souls to covetousness, malignity, and cor- 
ruption. 

This was cruel and bitter intelligence to such a man 
as Paul, — one, whose heart and soul were wrapped 
up in the success of his ministry, — who seemed to 
rejoice with the joy of ten thousand angels over one 
sinner that repented, and mourned like one heart- 
broken if one soul, that appeared to have been won 
from sin, had fallen away from its immortality. He 
accordingly writes to them a letter, the most solemn 
and the most tender that can well be conceived, in 
language at once the most dignified and affectionate ; 
and he here brings down the great argument of the 
Gospel upon them with all its weight. 

Perhaps we shall understand it better if we first 
consider those which are generally used in such cases. 

If a prudent man of the world, who had little re- 
spect for religion, but a high sense of what is called 
morality, had been sent to preach to these men, what 
arguments do we conceive he would have employed ? 
He would probably have said : c The excesses in 
c which you indulge will ruin your health, will short- 
' en your days, will rack your body with pain and 
* disease, will enfeeble your understanding, rendering 
c it poor, unsteady, and effeminate, unable to follow 
I any regular, manly, and honourable occupation in 
' life ; you will lose both your own respect, and the 
( respect of the world ; and if you cherish ill-will, 
6 malice, and envy, it will destroy your peace of mind 



254* SERMON VII. 

' and keep you at variance with your fellow-creatures, 
c with whom you should live in friendship and tran- 
' quillity/ And he would say very right : these ar- 
guments are in general very true ; but, alas ! they 
are seldom found to avail ; and when they do, suppose 
the object gained, their hearts relieved, their lives 
lengthened, their success in the pursuit of affluence 
secured, their reputation standing fair in the eye of 
all the world ; there is yet something behind ; there 
is a death, and there is a judgment ; and have they 
looked to them ? have they prepared for them ? Ve- 
rily they have had their reward, — the reward they 
looked for, — health, wealth, long life, and reputation. 
What claim have they to any thing farther ? 

But suppose a man who possesses a higher sense of 
religion, but who forgets to look for it in his Bible, — 
who recollects that there is to be a state of rewards 
and punishments, but who forgets that it is only 
through a blessed Mediator that we can hope for 
escape from the one, and for the attainment of the 
other, — suppose such a one sent to reform these pro- 
fligates, what might he say ? He would probably say, 
c The course in which you are proceeding is offensive 
c to Almighty God, and will draw down his everlast- 
' ing vengeance and indignation upon your heads ; 
' but, change your course, and reform, and you will 
' then deserve his forgiveness, his favour, and his 
c blessing/ Alas ! this argument would, it is to be 
feared, have less chance of succeeding than the former ; 
for while it places the objects to be attained at a 



SERMON VII. 255 

greater distance, it leaves their attainment much more 
uncertain; for, in the first place, how could they 
know whether the God of holiness would pardon past 
enormities for the sake of future obedience ? Suppose 
they had lived a life of righteousness to the very 
moment of which we are speaking, would they not 
be obliged to continue it to the end ? How then can 
they know whether future obedience may atone for 
past transgressions ? 

But, in the next place, suppose all past sins can- 
celled, to what are they to look forward ? One might 
say, e I know not what hind of righteousness or what 
' degree of righteousness God requires. If he requires 
' a life of unsinning obedience, I am lost for ever; if 
c not, I know not what vices I must give up, or what 
c I may still keep without forfeiting his favour. I 
( have no reason to say where he will draw the line : 
s if he can endure sin at all, without punishing it, he 
c may pardon me in my present state, without any 
f change whatever/ 

But what was the argument of Paul, the Christian 
apostle, the minister of the Gospel ? " Ye are not 
a your own : ye are bought with a price." You are 
bought and sold, body and soul : you are no longer 
your own property. Now the conclusion that he im- 
mediately draws, is, " Therefore glorify God in your 
body, and in your spirit, which are God's." I do 
not call upon you to renounce your evil ways, be- 
cause you think it may conduce to your own health 
and convenience — to your own satisfaction and gra- 



256 SERMON VII. 

tification here — to your success in life,, and to the 
establishment of a fair reputation ; I should then ac- 
knowledge you to be your own property, to belong to 
yourselves : nor do I summon you to repentance be- 
cause you are able to atone for your past transgres- 
sions, and to make your own peace with God ; this 
would look as if I still acknowledged you to belong 
to yourselves, and to be your own property, and that 
you could make a bargain with Heaven, — that you 
could buy off a vice with a virtue, and a sin by some 
fit of obedience : but I challenge you as the property 
of Jesus Christ, which he has purchased to himself for 
ever and ever, that you surrender yourself into his 
service, and glorify him as your Master, your Saviour, 
and your Redeemer. 

This is the argument of God himself to every one 
amongst us, to turn from the sins of his own heart 
and his own life ; and it should be as omnipotent as 
the God from whom it proceeds: — " Ye are bought 
with a price." From what are we bought? From 
these very sins, and the punishment they would draw 
down upon our souls. Here is every motive that can 
actuate a rational being: here there is no doubt of 
the dreadful aspect which our sins wear in the sight 
of the Supreme Being; for they required a terrible 
price to release us from them — nothing less than the 
blood of God ; and here is no doubt of love and mercy 
and forgiveness — for the price is paid. then, as 
you would not disappoint the good and gracious Being 
in all that he has done for you; as you would not 



SEEMON VII. 257 

wish that that price were paid for you in vain, acknow- 
ledge yourself his purchased servant, and glorify him 
in the body and in the spirit that he has bought ! 
You must become his property. But you will say,, 
c Behold, are not all things his ? Are not heaven and 
c earth, the sea, and all their inhabitants, — the firma- 
c ment, the vast expanse of the universe, and all that 
'it contains, his property?' Yes: they are indeed 
all his : — but there was one loved and favoured being 
among them all, whom he called peculiarly his own. 
In our Father s house there were indeed many hired 
servants ; but among all his creatures there was one 
Son ; for he said, u Let us make man in our own 
image:" and he formed him for a representative of 
himself. He was the property of God, as a child is 
the property of his father. His thoughts belonged to 
God ; for there was not one which he wished to conceal 
from him : they loved to dwell upon the glorious at- 
tributes of his Father, and admire the wonders of his 
power and of his goodness. No foul and corrupt de- 
sires, no sordid wishes interrupted the purity and 
brightness of his soul ; no angry, envious, or revenge- 
ful passion disturbed its deep and beautiful tranquil- 
lity. The spirit of man was then clearness and sun- 
shine; not a storm to ruffle, not a cloud to obscure 
it ; and it was transparent to the eye of Him in whose 
sight the sins that seem but specks and atoms to our 
view appear enlarged to a fearful size. The language 
of his lips belonged to God ; for, " out of the abun- 
dance of the heart the mouth speaketh t" and then 



258 SERMON VII. 

the heart abounded with all good arid holy thoughts,, 
and therefore no foul or bitter language issued from 
such a fountain, but it overflowed at his lips in praise 
or thanksgiving* The deeds of his hands and the 
course of his life belonged to God ; for his body was 
the servant of his soul, and was the glorious instru- 
ment by which he carried the wishes of a good and 
benevolent heart into execution. " In his law did 
he exercise himself day and night/' and he " glorified 
God in his body and his spirit." If he was in sub- 
jection to God, he was yet in bondage to no other 
being in the universe ; and His yoke was easy, and 
His burden light. 

What need is there to dwell upon the miserable 
change? Which of us sees anything like his own 
character in that which we have been considering? 
Or which of us, after reflecting for a moment upon 
what man was, and ought to be, can look upon him- 
self, without smiting upon his breast, and saying, 
u God be merciful to me a sinner !" 

Who is the Lord and Master of our body and our 
spirit, and whom do we glorify with them ? Whom 
do we follow and obey, and whose will have we most 
frequently and generally consulted in our conduct 
through life? To whom do our thoughts belong? 
Upon what objects do they delight to repose, and how 
many of them would you wish to conceal from the 
pure and everlasting gaze of your Creator ? How often 
would you wish that his eye had been closed upon 
you, and that he could not read the secret movements 



SERMON VII. 259 

of your heart ? Are they not often such as you would 
be ashamed to disclose even to a poor mortal like 
yourself? And yet there will be a day when they 
will be made known, when the secrets of all hearts 
will be revealed. 

To whom does your conversation belong? Upon 
what subjects do you most delight to speak ? Does 
the name of God occur only to be blasphemed ; or, if 
it ever rudely intrudes into your conversation, is it not 
banished like an unwelcome visitor that interrupts 
your enjoyments ? How often would you wish Hea- 
ven deaf to your voice, and that the ears of the Al- 
mighty were closed to the words of your mouth ? And 
yet there will be a day when every wanton, blasphe- 
mous, and unholy and uncharitable expression will be 
read aloud : " For every idle word that men shall 
ie speak, they shall give an account thereof in the day 
" of judgment." 

To whom do your actions belong ? Of all that you 
have done, and of all your pursuits in life, how many 
have you done or undertaken for the purpose of glori- 
fying Almighty God ; and how many to glorify your- 
self, your own pride, your own covet ousness, your 
own vanity, your own malice, your own sensuality, 
and the opinion of the world ? And yet, " for all 
these things God will bring thee into judgment." Ask 
yourselves solemnly the question, whom have you 
served? Have we not sought to do our own will, 
and not the will of him who made us ? The conse- 
quence is, that instead of being free, we have fallen 



260 SERMON VII. 

into bondage to our own passions and lusts, and have 
been the sport of every temptation of the world, and 
the victim of that dreadful being who is the author and 
promoter of all sin and all misery. When we broke 
the bonds that united us to our Creator, every gust of 
passion, every whisper of the world, and every sug- 
gestion of the devil, obtained dominion over us ; and 
what is the consequence ? — " Know ye not, that to 
" whom ye render yourselves servants to obey, his 
ee servants ye are to whom ye obey ? Whether of sin, 
-' unto death ; or of obedience, unto righteousness ?" 
If the Lord of your soul, and the Master whom you 
serve, whom you have chiefly and most frequently 
consulted, be not God, recollect the wages of such 
obedience is death ; and which of us has not been in 
such bondage to corruption, and has not earned and 
purchased to himself the awful reward ? But, blessed 
for ever be that God who still looked for the sons that 
he had lost, for the flock that had wandered, and who 
paid the ransom that once more set us free to our 
salvation, we have been bought with agony and bloody 
sweat ; with tears and groans ; with writhings of the 
body, and woundings of the spirit ; with the torture 
of the cross, and the life of God : amidst darkness and 
fearful signs, and the rending of the rocks, and the 
bursting of the tombs. All that the frame and the 
spirit of man could endure, was suffered for us ; and 
all that the love and mercy of God could give, was 
lavished upon our salvation. 

Such is the value that God has set upon our heads ; 



SERMON VII. 261 

such is the price by which he purchases us back, and 
makes us his own sons and his family for ever : and 
it is therefore that he calls upon us to glorify him in 
that body and that spirit, which he has thus made his 
own by all the claims both of creation and redemption. 
For, as St. Paul in another place explains it, ec If 
" Christ died for us, then were we all dead ; and he 
" died for all, that they which live should not hence- 
" forth live unto themselves, but unto him who died 
" for them, and rose again," 

If you reject this sacrifice, then no price has been 
paid for you, or it has been paid in vain : you do not 
acknowledge it; you must save yourself, without 
hoping that one single drop of your Kedeemer's blood 
shall fall upon your soul, to render it fit to stand be- 
fore the holiness of God. If your heart sinks, and 
your soul shudders at such a thought, then recollect, 
that if Christ died for you, then were you dead, — 
dead in trespasses and sins, — in bondage to corrup- 
tion, and the servant of those masters whose wages is 
death ; and recollect that the very purpose for which 
he died, and without which you disappoint the glori- 
ous salvation that he has wrought for you, is, " that 
" henceforth you should not live unto yourselves, but 
" unto him who died for you and rose again." We 
must die With him if we hope to live with him ; we 
must enter into his service, and become his disciples 
by glorifying him in the body and the spirit, which he 
has redeemed ; and then can we look with pure and 
lowly hope for the forgiveness of our past wanderings, 



262 SERMON VII. 

and of the numberless transgressions of which we are 
guilty, even after we have surrendered ourselves to his 
good guidance : then can we look for support in the 
thousand falterings which we shall make in our jour- 
ney, when we faintly attempt to tread in his gracious 
and sainted footsteps. 

He has purchased your thoughts ; for he has offered 
to make you the temple of his Holy Spirit, who will 
purify you from sin, and fill you with righteousness 
and true holiness, and who will give you strength in 
all your trials, and consolation under all the cares of 
the world, the infirmities of your nature, and the sink- 
ings of your hearts. 

He has purchased the words of your mouth ; for he 
has given you an example that ye should follow him, 
cc who when he was reviled, reviled not again, and 
" in whose mouth was found no guile ;" and who 
out of the good treasure of his heart brought forth good 
things. 

He has purchased your bodies : those sinful bodies, 
which were once the masters of our souls, by whose 
means we often become the servants of corruption and 
sensuality: those members, which were before the 
instruments of unrighteousness unto sin, are now made 
the instruments of righteousness unto God; and by 
the help and power of that spirit which he always 
gives to those that humbly ask him, we shall be able 
to wield these stubborn and rebellious members, the 
former instruments of sin and corruption, in the living 
service of our Redeemer. It is as if we had stormed 



SERMON VII. 263 

the camp of the enemy, — had seized his weapons and 
his armour, and had turned them against himself. 

Choose, then, which master you will serve — Mam- 
mon or God. Choose, then, which wages you will 
receive — Death or Immortality : and recollect that 
you can no more serve both these, than you can re- 
ceive the wages of both ; and that the service of God 
and of Mammon are as inconsistent as the death and 
immortality that are their natural consequences. Think, 
before you decide, which master loves you most ; think 
which would sacrifice most for you. — Think what 
price the cold and ungenerous world would give to 
redeem you from a single pang of body or mind ; and 
think with what kind and devoted prodigality your 
blessed Redeemer paid down himself — his body, and 
his meek and holy spirit, for your everlasting welfare. 

Finally : it may be useful to reflect that the happi- 
ness of the next world will consist in glorifying God 
in our body, and in our spirit, and in enjoying the de- 
lights of his everlasting presence. We can conceive 
no other; so that it might be well, even on this ac- 
count alone, to cultivate a disposition that is to con- 
stitute our happiness to all eternity : for even if our 
wild hopes of attaining heaven without glorifying him 
upon earth were fulfilled, — after all, what would it 
come to? The last trumpet would summon us to 
glorify him in our body and in our spirit for ever and 
ever ! 



SERMON VIII. 



Colossians, iii. 3. 
Set your affections on things above ; not on things on the earth. 

To go to heaven when we die seems to be the 
grand wish that we form to ourselves whenever we 
happen to fall into a serious mood of thinking, or 
begin to grow melancholy at the prospect of d,eath. 
To go to heaven, — and then it would appear that 
nothing more was wanting to complete our happi- 
ness. 

And yet there is one very simple question, that it 
is quite surprising we so seldom think of asking ; and 
that is, — " What kind of place we should find it if 
we went there V That heaven is a scene of un- 
bounded happiness and everlasting delight there is no 
doubt whatever : but should we find it so ? is quite 
another question. We know that a deaf man might 
be surrounded with the sweetest music and the most 
enchanting harmony, and to him it would be all dead 
silence ; and a beautiful portrait or a lovely landscape 
would be nothing but darkness to a blind man's eye. 

But to come still nearer to the point; we know 
that the same company that would be enjoyed by a 
man of one description would be actually insupport- 
able to another; and that there are many situations 



SERMON VIII. 265 

in which one man would find himself perfectly happy, 
that would make another utterly miserable. Now, to 
decide the question at once, only conceive for a mo- 
ment that every man was allowed to choose for him- 
self in this particular, and that heaven was to be just 
what every man pleases; and what would be the 
result ? Only look back upon your life, and observe 
the scenes in which you felt yourself most at home 
— the things in which your soul has most delighted — 
where your heart was most interested and engaged; 
and that would be your heaven. Fix your eye upon 
those scenes of your keenest enjoyment — mark them 
well, dwell upon the circumstances by which they 
were characterised, — and you have the kind of hea- 
ven that you would choose. " Where your treasure 
is, there would your heart be also." 

With some men heaven would be — what we will 
not dare to name : we must draw a curtain over it ; 
— we might mistake it for a scene that bears another 
name. With others, it would be the sumptuous board 
and the splendid establishment. With others, it would 
be the reward of ambition, and the shout of popular 
applause. With others, a round of the amusements 
that fill up the vacancies of human life. And, in ge- 
neral, it would probably be just such a place as this 
earth, — only with a certain number of comforts and 
advantages superadded, and a certain number of dan- 
gers and inconveniences removed. 

Now, is it not probable that to such men as these 
heaven would be a state either of languor or of misery ? 



266 SERMON VIII. 

Heaven is not a theatre, that shifts the scene to suit 
itself to every foolish fancy and every silly humour 
of the spectators. It has, indeed, its fulness of joy 
and its pleasures for evermore: but the question is, 
have we the power and the relish to enjoy them ? We 
will suppose, for a moment, that our hope of going to 
heaven is, some way or other, fulfilled, and that (God 
knows how) we have passed the fearful account that 
we shall have to render, — of sins committed, of duties 
neglected, of blessings abused, of time squandered away. 
We will suppose that we have found our way into 
that heaven that is the object of our hopes : — what 
have we to promise ourselves? We know at least 
what we shall not find there ; we know that " naked 
as we came into this world, naked shall we go out of 
it ;" that the body which held us and the earth toge- 
ther is laid in the dust from which it was taken ; the 
bond that united us to this lower world is snapped, 
and the channel through which we communicated with 
it withdrawn; and this busy stage, upon which our 
affections have been running to and' fro, seeking rest 
and finding none, is at once concealed from our view, 
and becomes to us a dead blank. Alas ! alas ! what 
object shall we fasten upon to fill up the dreary va- 
cancy which was once occupied by our busy pursuits 
and our dear pleasures upon earth? For the gold 
and the silver are gone, and the pipe, and the viol, 
and the tabret, have died away in silence. What 
shall we seize upon to employ our minds, or to interest 
our hearts, or to excite our desires, or to fill up our 



SERMON VIII. 267 

conversation ? Alas ! where is the buying and the 
selling, the bustle of business, or the enthusiasm of 
enterprise, that supplied us at once with our cares and 
our hopes ? Where is the flowing goblet, and the wild 
and wanton merriment that used to set the table in a 
roar ? Alas ! alas ! what shall we do for the delight- 
ful trifles by which we contrived, while we were upon 
the earth, to get rid of time, and forget that it was 
rolling over our heads ? What shall we do for those 
wild pursuits by which we made ourselves mad for a 
time, and hunted eternity out of our minds ? What 
shall we do for conversation; upon what subjects 
shall we converse? And then — to go on in this way 
for ever ! and for ever ! and for ever ! We cannot sit 
thus dreaming through eternity. If this be Heaven, 
would to God he had left us still upon our beloved 
earth ! Wherefore have ye brought us out of Egypt, 
where we ate and drank and were merry, and have 
left us here to perish in the wilderness ? Better would 
it have been for us to have still our interchanges of 
hope and fear, of pleasure and pain, of repose and fa- 
tigue, of joy and sorrow, than to endure this dismal 
serenity, — than to say in the morning, " would to«God 
it were evening ;" and in the evening, " would to God 
it were morning." 

Such is what we shall not find in heaven. But 
what is it that is there ? What vast fund of unex- 
ampled enjoyments, what crowd of fresh delights? 
What is there to interest our affections and to fill our 
thoughts? "Even He that filleth all things;" the 



268 SERMON VIII. 

only Being that can satisfy our immortal spirit; 
" whom to know is life eternal/' for " this is life 
" eternal,, to know thee, the only true God, and 
" Jesus Christ whom thou hast sent." All the bless- 
ings and delights of heaven are described as flowing 
from him. " In thy presence is fulness of joy, and 
" at thy right hand are pleasures for evermore/' To 
see his face ; to rejoice in the light of his countenance ; 
to awake and behold his glory, — are the strongest and 
loveliest ideas of happiness that even the language of 
inspiration, and " lips touched with fire," have been 
able to convey. " I beseech thee," said the prophet 
of old, " show me thy glory. If thy presence go not 
" up with me, carry me not up out of this wilderness. 
' c I will stay here in the desert with thee ; for what 
" is the land flowing with milk and honey without 
Ci thee V* But the everlasting employment of the 
blessed spirits is praise, and adorations, and hallelu- 
jahs : — they are for ever before the throne of God, and 
serve him day and night in his temple, and they rest 
not day and night, saying, " Holy ! holy ! holy P 

Now it may be well to ask ourselves soberly the 
question — how much of our present happiness consists 
in this which we find is to be the happiness of heaven 
to all eternity ? Really, does it suit our ideas of hap- 
piness ? Is it the happiness that we have been enjoy- 
ing for our past life ? As God liveth ! have we been 
most happy when ho was nearest to us, or farthest 
from us ? Have we most enjoyed ourselves when he 
was most in our thoughts, or least in our thoughts ? 



SERMON VIII. 269 

Really, are our greatest pleasures those with which 
God has least to do? — and does it appear strange to 
us that there should be such a luxury in knowing 
God ? Perhaps there are some to whom it conveys a 
very dead and very cheerless idea. To know God ! to be 
engaged in celebrating his praises to all eternity ! How 
long could we endure such a labour upon earth ? Alas ! 
alas ! how heavy and monotonous would it appear ! 
and what a release would it be to our spirits to launch 
again from the austerity of his society into the gay 
varieties of life ! Then what becomes of your hopes 
of Heaven ? Must it not miserably disappoint you ? 
What would become of you, a forlorn and bewildered 
stranger, among the saints that rest not day and night, 
saying, Holy! holy! holy! What would you do? 
— how would you dispose of yourself after the first 
glow of adoration had subsided, and the first swell of 
the anthem had died away upon your ears ? Their 
joys would be lost to you: for it is no stupid and 
senseless worship in which they are engaged; no idle 
clamour, or servile adulation. But they " sing with 
" the Spirit, and they sing with the understanding :" 
they know wherefore they praise him ; it is because 
they are becoming more and more acquainted with 
him who only is inexhaustible. Every other subject 
of thought would be drained by eternity : but him, 
boundless and unfathomable, they learn, and study, 
and adore for ever and ever ! 

It is no heartless inquiry into abstract science ; no 
cold and merely intellectual disquisition ; but the pure 



270 SERMON VIII. 

and glorious delight of a celestial spirit observing Infi- 
nite Wisdom carrying into effect the designs of Infi- 
nite Benevolence ; the thrill of admiration that arises 
from being allowed to contemplate the source from 
which love and goodness are for ever issuing in all di- 
rections. 

They see and pursue him in the works of nature,, 
and are permitted to discover his glory in the heavens, 
and his handiwork in the firmament. They are 
finding out, by his permission, secret after secret in 
the vast scheme of the universe ; and are taught how 
he guides the sun in his course, and ordains her jour- 
ney for the moon; for what purpose he made the 
stars, and how he upholds them aloft, and makes 
them his servants ; and thousands of mysteries, of 
which we never dream, are they discovering in his 
works; and at every discovery they fall down and 
cry — "Holy! holy! holy!" 

But more especially do they study him in his work 
of Grace and Redemption ; (" for these are things 
" which angels desire to look into ;") they remember 
that he forsook his throne and left his glory to look 
for a guilty and outcast world, that had wilfully 
plunged into darkness : they remember that he took 
upon him our vile and loathsome nature, bearing our 
sins and carrying our infirmities ; they remember that 
" he was despised and rejected of men, a man of sor- 
" rows, and acquainted with grief; that he was 
ff wounded for our sins, and bruised for our iniqui- 
" ties," and tasted the bitterness of death for our 



' SERMON VIII. 271 

sakes : they see him afterwards ascending up on high, 
and leading captivity captive, and bestowing gifts on 
man ; and behold him seated at the right hand of the 
Father, and making intercession for the transgressors : 
and all this for beings who had deserted his pleasant 
pastures — who had flung away his rod and his staff, 
and leaned upon broken reeds; and (what is most 
astonishing) had actually lost their taste and relish for 
immortal things ; and yet talk of hoping to go to hea- 
ven, without waiting to inquire what heaven is, or 
what it means. This work of mercy do the blessed 
inhabitants of heaven study for ever and ever : for it 
is inexhaustible as the works of creation itself. New 
beauties and fresh glories are discovered at every view. 
Effects, which perhaps never occurred to the human 
imagination, may be developed from time to time; 
and at every new discovery of love the whole heavenly 
host brighten with immortal gratitude, and lay down 
their golden crowns before the throne, saying ; " Holy ! 
holy! holy!" 

But this devotion to the one great source of happi- 
ness only serves to bind them to each other in ties 
that are delightful and everlasting : stronger than all 
the confederacies of sin ; stronger than the affections 
of parent and child, brother and sister, husband and 
wife, are the affections of these immortal spirits to 
each other. 

It is true, they all turn their faces towards the 
throne; but their love and their regards all meet in 
him who sitteth upon it. Jealousy and envy, malice 



272 SERMON VIII. 

and revenge, are far away, chained down in the lake 
that burns for ever. Truth, clear truth, that needs no 
concealment, shows them each other's hearts; and 
there they find Eternal Love written in living charac- 
ters by the finger of God. 

Delightful beyond all the pleasures of the earth is 
the sweet counsel that these blessed beings take with 
each other, and the converse in which they indulge : 
it always binds them closer than before ; for the sub- 
ject is still — the one good God, the good and great 
Redeemer, who brought them together and still holds 
them in eternal union. Is this the heaven you hoped 
for ? Do you find yourself capable of that happiness 
in which it consists ? 



SERMON IX. 



Luke, ix. 23. 

And he said to them all : if any man will come after me, let him 
deny himself and take up his cross daily, and follow me. 

These are fearful words ! It is true, they contain 
an invitation: it is true, they are written by the 
mildest, the gentlest, and the most gracious being that 
ever moved upon the earth ; who loved us more than 
we have ever loved each other, or ourselves ; and they 
invite us to follow him, who leads the way to all that 
is good, and pure, and holy, and delightful : but they 
speak of self-denial, and suffering, and mortification. 
There is not a single human passion to which they 
condescend to appeal; — not one of our vices, our 
frailties, or prejudices, or our infirmities, not one even 
of the kind and generous affections of our nature, 
which they deign to conciliate or solicit for their sup- 
port; for in the same breath it is declared — " Who- 
" soever loveth father, or mother, or sister, or wife, 
u or his own life, more than me or the gospel, is not 
" worthy of me." 

These are fearful words : they need only be uttered 
in order to prove how we disobey them. If, instead 
of reading them in this place and on this day, when 

T 



274 SERMON IX. 

our minds have attained something of a serious and a 
solemn cast from the service in which we have just 
been engaged, we were to meet them in the course of 
our daily occupation ; if they were to cross us in the 
midst of active life, while we were pursuing some of 
the dearest objects of our desires, — they would sound 
something like the toll of a death-bell in our ears, and 
lead us to ask ourselves this simple question, — Am I 
now following my Redeemer, or am I following my 
own imaginations ? 

And yet there was a time when it was obeyed by 
thousands and ten thousands: there were men who 
rejoiced to bear their cross ; to many he had only to 
say, " Come, follow me," and they followed him : 
many of them rejoiced that they were counted worthy 
to suffer shame for his name ; " they were troubled 
" on every side, yet not distressed ; perplexed, but 
". not in despair : persecuted, but not destroyed ; al- 
" ways bearing about in the body the dying of the 
" Lord Jesus — " they l cc gloried in the cross of Christ, 
" by which the world was crucified to them and they 
u to the world/' For three hundred years they sus- 
tained their faith, and followed the steps of their 
Redeemer through oppressions, torments, and perse- 
cutions that exhausted the malice and ingenuity of 
man; — in which the fury with which their enemies 
pursued them, and the miseries to which they were 
exposed for their faith, could only be equalled by the 
devotion and fortitude with which they were sustained. 
Patiently and cheerfully did they bear their cross : it 



SERMON IX. 275 

was not long since their Redeemer himself had suf- 
fered; his footsteps from Jerusalem to Calvary were 
yet fresh upon the earth; and it was not forgotten 
how he said, " The servant is not greater than his 
Lord." Those were days of affliction: but when 
milder times succeeded, and when the violence of 
persecution had subsided, Christians began to forget 
that they had still to bear their cross: they began 
to fancy that there was a different gospel for the per- 
secuted follower of Christ, and him who is left at ease 
in his possessions. We must have persuaded our- 

' selves that there is something very different between 
the gospel of those days of glorious and devoted suffer- 
ing, and the gospel of these later times, when scarce 
one holy thought or one pure affection of the heart 
rises to our Redeemer ; when the weight of the cross 
is hardly felt, and scarcely one guilty passion is over- 
come, one sinful desire repressed for the sake of him 
who said, " Whoever will come after me, let him 
" deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and fol- 

, ei low me." 

And yet let us be assured that, however times and 
seasons may change, the everlasting gospel is still the 
same. God is always to be worshipped in spirit ; 
for iC God is a spirit ; and they that worship him 
" must worship him in spirit and in truth." All the 
laws of the gospel are therefore spiritual, and are con- 
sequently unchangeable; for however customs, and 
manners, and circumstances may alter, — however the 
way in which we are to carry our obedience into effect 



276 SERMON IX. 

may be influenced by difference of situation, the foun- 
tain in the heart, from which all our actions are to 
proceed, must be the same, — the obedience of the 
soul of man to his God must be the same. The dis- 
position of the Christian is the same through all eter- 
nity: and the same spirit that led the martyrs to 
the stake is to conduct us through the struggles of 
sinful nature and the temptations of a guilty world. 

Our Saviour foresaw that in prosperity we should 
be tempted to forget this, and for that very reason he 
seems to have added the word " daily" in the passage 
before us, — to remind us that it is not so much by 
separate acts, and mere outward sufferings, that he ex- 
pected us to bear our cross, as by the constant dispo- 
sition of our hearts and the common tenor of our lives ; 
and for the same reason he takes care to explain the 
expression, " bearing the cross" not so much by en- 
during persecution, or being willing to give up our 
lives in his service, as by denying ourselves daily. 

Can we be at a loss to understand this ? We have 
only to compare ourselves with him whom we are to 
follow, in order to perceive how much we must deny 
ourselves, and that, every hour of our lives, we have 
to cast down imaginations and high things that exalt 
themselves against the knowledge of Christ : I do not 
even say, look at your wilful and deliberate sins : — 
stop in the midst of any earthly pursuit in which you 
are engaged, — look into your heart, — see what pas- 
sions, what dispositions are there. Then look at the 
blessed Jesus, — look at his purity, — look at his de- 



SERMON IX. 277 

votion, whose meat and drink it was to do the will 
of his Father which is in heaven, — his exalted love 
to God, — his universal love for every human being, 
for friend and for enemy, — a love which nailed him 
to the cross, from which he dropped the prayer, 
" Father, forgive them, for they know not what they 
do £ and then shall we understand what it is to deny 
ourselves daily, — daily to bear our cross, though we 
had never any other enemy to persecute us but the 
sin within our own hearts. One moment's compari- 
son between ourselves and him whom we are here 
commanded to follow, will show us that we must 
crucify the guilty nature within us, — that we must 
bring every guilty passion into subjection to a higher 
principle, — that we must teach our earthly affections, 
even the most innocent, to move like slaves only at 
the permission of the spirit of holiness residing with- 
in us. 

Therefore let us beware of the fatal excuses which 
we hear every day of our lives : — " If we act up to 
" the nature that God has given us, shall we not do 
" well ? God cannot have given us these passions 
cc without intending that they should be gratified. 
" Why do you therefore tell us that they are to be 
" daily mortified and overcome, and only indulged 
k< under the government of such a holy feeling, that, 
" even then they are only half enjoyed ?" The plain 
rjid decisive answer is this, — It is not the nature 
which God has given you. Alas ! supposing, for an 
instant, that this corrupt and sinful nature is that 



278 SERMON IX. 

which God originally gave, — what will it teach us? 
Ask the labourer, who denies himself the repose which 
famished and exhausted nature seems eagerly and al- 
most irresistibly to demand, and who struggles through 
the burning day of unremitting fatigue, why he de- 
frauds nature of every moment of rest and recreation 
which he can wring from her; and he will tell you, 
that self-denial is the common lot of man ; that when 
the earth was given for sustenance to man, God said, 
" In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread all the 
days of thy life." Now what human nature can do, 
shall it not do for its God ? If we find ourselves in 
the company of another, even of our dearest and most 
confidential friend, there is a degree of self-denial and 
restraint under which we lay our behaviour — a re- 
straint which we show in his presence : now the re- 
spect which we feel, and the restraint to which we 
subject ourselves in the presence of a human being, 
shall we not show in the presence of " the God who 
is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity/' who watches 
every thought of our souls, and who counts the beat- 
ings of our hearts ? 

At different periods of our lives we break the kind- 
est and dearest ties by which nature can bind us to a 
fellow-creature : we leave friends, and home, and all 
the associations of infancy and youth, for the purpose 
of bettering our fortunes ; and enter into new society 
as if into a new world, and undergo as it were a se- 
cond birth into new scenes: sometimes traverse the 
globe in search of gain, or in the hope of a brief estab- 



SERMON IX. 279 

lishment in life before we die; and what we can do 
for these miserable objects, shall we not do for God 
and for salvation? Shall we be surprised when we 
hear him say, " Whoso loveth father or mother, or 
iC sister or wife, yea, or his own life, more than me, is 
ff not worthy of me/' 

Our exertions for immortal happiness, and the self- 
denial necessary to accomplish it, should in fact be as 
much greater than that we now are willing to exer- 
cise, as immortality exceeds the objects which we now 
pursue. Alas ! we shall have to deny ourselves daily 
as long as our nature is such as it is. This is not the 
nature which God gave us. The nature which God 
gave us was holy, pure, and an image of himself; 
the nature under which we now labour is sensual, 
corrupt, and so far from meriting the blessings of ano- 
ther world, that it has lost even a relish for its enjoy- 
ments. Our affections are all earthly : we have no 
love to spare to our God ; for to love the God of holi- 
ness we must become holy, as he is holy. It is there- 
fore that we are commanded to deny our nature daily. 
It would sound strange if an angel were commanded 
to deny himself daily. Deny what? His pleasure 
consists in the everlasting consciousness that he is in 
the presence of God, " at whose right hand there are 
" pleasures for evermore/' His pleasure consists in 
exploring and admiring the perfections of God — his 
power, his wisdom, his unfathomable goodness; in 
holding humble communion with his Creator, and pay- 
ing him devoted and everlasting adoration. Would it 



280 SERMON IX. 

not sound strange if he was commanded to deny him- 
self these ? But look to man ! Alas ! the difference 
between his pleasures and those we have been describ- 
ing, will make us feel in our hearts the necessity of 
" denying ourselves/' and will show us the full mean- 
ing of the precept. With which of all among us exists 
that feeling of love to God, and of delight in his pre- 
sence, which is all in all with the angel? With 
which of us is it the natural feeling of the heart? 
And yet it should be the predominant principle, or it 
is nothing. It would seem absurd to state that God 
should be anything but the first and ruling object of 
our affections, — that he should be subordinate to any 
other. Accordingly we find that the most tremen- 
dous denunciations are registered against those u who 
forget God:" and as that love of God, — that delight 
in his presence, — that worship of his perfections, which 
the angel enjoys, is not the natural or governing feel- 
ing and sentiment of our souls, how fatally would this 
difference show us (even if Scripture were silent upon 
the subject in every other passage but that before us) 
the justice and necessity of that precept, — that " we 
must deny ourselves f that we must contradict our 
nature, and make it move in daily and perpetual sub- 
ordination to a grander principle. 

But, alas ! when we look behind, when we look 
before, what consolation is there from the past, what 
hope is there from the future? From the past it is 
that we have now ascertained our danger ; and a mo- 
ment's communion with our hearts will show us how 



SERMON IX. 281 

helpless of themselves, how ineffectual and insufficient 
they are, without some new vital energy to assist 
their weak endeavours, to work out the great spiritual 
change, without which heaven and its happiness can- 
not be comprehended, much less attained. But the 
Redeemer says, " Take up your cross and follow me/ 
Here is indeed consolation and pardon for the past; 
hope and immortality for the future. As the ruins of 
that pure nature which God had endowed us with, 
and the express declaration and entire tenor of Scrip- 
ture, prove that a great change has taken place in the 
human race — a moral corruption, that has broken the 
image which God has made for himself, and has given 
a shock to a part of his creation which he once pro- 
nounced to be " very good :" it appears absolutely ne- 
cessary that some great change, — some moral con- 
vulsion, — some shock equal to the first, should take 
place in order to restore the derangement that was 
thus produced. God himself descended to bring his 
own work back to its purity. By the suffering on 
that cross he did what we could never have done for 
ourselves ; he made atonement for our guilty desertion 
of God ; he became a full, perfect, and sufficient sa- 
crifice for the sins of our degenerate species ; and, 
through that suffering and the merits of his blood, he 
procured for us an assisting Spirit, that is to keep 
pace with the weak exertions of our hearts, and help 
to overcome within us the dominion of sins, from the 
punishment of which we shall thus be acquitted 
through his mediation. 



282 SERMON IX. 

Of this great salvation the leading condition is, 
Faith in that Redeemer, — a full reliance upon him 
and his merits, which only can procure us pardon and 
immortality : and nothing can teach us to understand 
the nature of that faith, by which only we are saved, 
better than the very passage before us : — " Take up 
" your cross and follow me." It makes Christ, and 
Christ alone, the object that we are to keep constantly, 
unremittingly in view, as all we can depend upon for 
hope, and blessing, and salvation ; but it shows that 
in order to this we must follow him, we must tread 
in his steps, we must imitate his example. In fact, 
faith (that word upon which so many stumble) in- 
cludes in its signification what we all perfectly well 
understand by a word very like it, fidelity ; — the fide- 
lity of a servant to his master, of a disciple to his 
teacher. We look to him for every thing ; for hope, 
for example, and for strength. For hope — to his 
atonement, through which only we must look for 
every spiritual blessing which our Heavenly Father 
bestows ; for example -—to his life of purity, and holi- 
ness, and charity; for strength — to his Holy Spirit, 
without which our feeble struggles against the guilty 
nature within us would be all useless and unavailing. 

Thus the text before us shows us, as it were, in a 
beautiful picture, the connexion between faith and its 
practical effects upon our lives and our feelings. It 
represents us following Christ humbly, yet indefati- 
gably, under the burden of the cross ; keeping him in 
view as the only ground of our hope and our reliance ; 



SERMON IX. 283 

and, in order to keep in sight, we must toil on in our 
journey, bearing the cross, treading the path he has 
gone before us. The moment we cease to tread in his 
footsteps, — the moment we halt in the way in which 
he has preceded, — he has got out of sight, and our 
faith and practice fail at the same instant. 



SERMON X. 



Matthew, xi. 30. 

My yoke is easy, and my burden is light. 

It is almost always by comparison that we judge of 
the ease or the hardship of our situation. You will 
generally find, that any man who complains of the 
severity of his lot, compares it either with some hap- 
pier state that he had himself formerly enjoyed, or 
with the more prosperous circumstances of those by 
whom he is surrounded; at least you would think 
him entitled to very little pity, if he continued to 
murmur and repine when his situation was neither 
worse than what it was before, nor worse than that of 
most of his neighbours. 

If you should attempt to reconcile him to his situa- 
tion, what would be the most natural method of pro- 
ceeding ? By comparison : by showing him how much 
worse it might have been. Now this is the best way 
of estimating the ease of the Christian yoke, and of 
weighing the burden that our Redeemer lays upon our 
shoulders ; and thus shall we soon discover how gra- 
cious are those commandments which we think it 
hard to fulfil; how indulgent are those laws which 



SERMON X. 285 

we often neglect and despise : then, when we have com- 
pared them with other yokes and other burdens, shall 
we learn how easy is that yoke to which we often re- 
fuse to submit ; how light that burden which we often 
fling with impatience to the ground. 

Let us first look abroad for matter of comparison. 
The greater part of the world have never yet been vi- 
sited by the Gospel of Christ ; have never yet heard 
the message of love and salvation. Now it may be 
curious to observe what are the religious yokes and 
burdens which these people have imposed upon them- 
selves ; that is, in other words, what are the religious 
duties by which they hope to become objects of the 
Divine favour, and partakers of the blessings he be- 
stows, — to turn away his anger, to purchase his 
favour, to escape his vengeance, and conciliate his 
mercy. Perhaps it would be impossible to invent a 
new kind of bodily torture which many among these 
wretched people have not willingly undergone for 
these objects. All those who are anxious to render 
themselves acceptable in the sight of God actually de- 
vote themselves to misery, and go in search of some 
new kind of suffering, by which they think they can 
become more worthy of his approbation. It would be 
a kind of punishment to us even to hear some of them 
described. Death, in its ordinary shape, appears much 
too easy, and would be a relief to their sufferings; 
but they contrive to lengthen out its agonies, so that 
many of them are dying for half their lives in lingering 
torments, in which they conceive the Supreme Being 



286 SERMON X. 

takes peculiar delight. Sometimes these miserable 
men offer their children, their relations, or their friends, 
as a sacrifice to appease his fury ; and at other times 
they fly from the company of men, and all the com- 
forts of society, to devote themselves to the service of 
the Almighty in caverns and wildernesses. Now ob- 
serve, this arises from no command of God, — no reve- 
lation from Heaven ; it is the sentence of a man upon 
himself — the yoke and the burden that he has laid 
upon his own shoulders. 

Suppose God had said to us — " Wear the yoke 
" which you find your fellow-creatures have volun- 
" tarily chosen. I will allow you to attain eternal 
" life through these sufferings. Go, be your own tor- 
" turer, — bring your children to my altar, and honour 
" me with their blood ; and banish yourself from the 
cc company of your fellow-creatures for ever, and you 
" shall be an inheritor of my kingdom;" — which of 
us could complain ? Measure these sufferings and mi- 
series, great as they are, with life everlasting — with 
the glories of God's presence, and the unseen riches of 
a future world, and you would say, Lord, here I give 
thee my body, which thou requirest to be burnt — here 
it is, ready for the agony ; and here are the children 
whose blood thou requirest of my hands, and here am 
I, prepared to fly from the fellowship of my brothers, 
and hide my head in the woods and the wilds from 
the sight of human kind, — yet still I feel it is only 
through the voluntary bounty of thy goodness and thy 
mercy, that even all this can be made to avail, and it 



SERMON X. 287 

will still be the effect of thy loving kindness if even 
thus I become an inheritor of thy kingdom. 

Such then is the yoke and the burden of our neigh- 
bours, and such is what our yoke and our burden 
might have been. 

It is now time to look to what it is. Where now 
are our stripes, — our agonies, — the writhings of our 
body, and the woundings of our flesh ? Where is the 
lingering death which we are to endure, and the vi- 
sitation of the wrath of God upon our souls ? " He 
u was wounded for our transgressions : the chastise- 
" ment of our peace was laid on him." There was a 
beloved Son, whose blood was shed for our sakes ; — 
but the lamb was not taken from our flock, nor the 
child from our bosom: there was one who left his 
home on high for this wilderness beneath, and has left 
us in our cheerful homes, and our peaceful habitations : 
Ms yoke was indeed severe, and his burden was 
heavy, for it was our toil that he endured, and our 
burden that he bore. " Surely, he hath borne our 
cc griefs, and carried our sorrows !" and he has borne 
and carried them away. 

There is not a single pain of body or mind that we 
are called upon to endure because it is pain, — or for 
the sake of the suffering itself. There is indeed self- 
denial and mortification. But it seems to be a law 
that cannot be broken — that where there is sin there 
must be pain; as long as there is sin alive within, 
there will still be the struggle and the battle. But, 
even here, he is still with us ; for, " I am with you 



288 SERMON X. 

even to the end of the world f and his holy and pow- 
erful Spirit is ever ready to sustain us. 

Now look at the imaginary god of the Indians, 
watching with a kind of savage delight the agonies of 
his votaries ; and then look at your Redeemer, bearing 
away all the sufferings to which you were devoted, 
and assisting you in the conflict that you have yet to 
undergo ! He was verily and indeed crucified for our 
sakes, and his body nailed to the tree ; but when he 
turns to us, he lays the cross gently upon our shoul- 
ders, and when he commands us to be crucified with 
him, he asks for no torments, no blood, but that we 
should " Render our bodies a living sacrifice, holy and 
' c acceptable, which is our reasonable service , that 
we should offer them as temples for his Holy Spirit, 
that we may glorify him in our body and in our spirit. 
He left the bosom of his Father to become your atone- 
ment; but when he speaks to you, he tells you to 
live still in the midst of your family, to tell them how 
good the Lord is, to teach them his judgments and his 
statutes, to show them the path of life, and to lead the 
way, to educate a family for heaven, that your " Sons 
cc may be as the young plants about the house of your 
ec God, and your daughters as the polished corners of 
u the temple." The earth was to him a desert and a 
wilderness ; he was a stranger and a pilgrim " that 
" had not where to lay his head :" but when he speaks 
to you, so far from commanding you to desert your 
common brethren and fellow-creatures, he has united 
you to them by a bond as strong as that which holds 



SERMON X. 289 

the world together ; for he has said, " As I have 
" loved you, so love one another ; and by this shall 
" all men know that ye are my disciples." To per- 
petuate this divine benevolence,, he has ordained that 
the day which he has chosen for himself should be a 
day of common assembling among those that love him, 
that they may show how they love one another. He 
has pronounced a blessing upon Christian fellowship, 
— " Where two or three are gathered together, I am 
" in the midst of them ;" and the sacrament that he 
left as a memorial of himself, he left, at the same 
time, as a memorial of Christian brotherhood and af- 
fection. 

Such is our yoke and our burden ! Let him, who 
has thought it too hard and too heavy to bear, be 
prepared to state it boldly when he shall appear side 
by side with the poor and mistaken Indian before the 
throne of God at the day of judgment. The poor 
heathen may come forward with his wounded limbs 
and weltering body, saying, ' I thought thee an au- 
6 stere master, delighting in the miseries of thy crea- 
c tures, and I have accordingly brought thee the torn 
' remnants of a body which I have tortured in thy 
c service/ And the Christian will come forward and 
say, c I knew that thou didst die to save me from 
' such sufferings and torments, and that thou only 
c commandedst me to keep my body in temperance, 
' soberness, and chastity, and I thought it too hard 
' for me ; and I have accordingly brought thee the 
' refuse and sweepings of a body that has been cor- 

u 



290 SERMON X. 

' rupted and brutalised in the service of profligacy and 
' drunkenness, — even the body which thou didst de- 
' clare should be the temple of thy Holy Spirit/ The 
poor Indian will, perhaps, show his hands, reeking 
with the blood of his children, saying, e I thought this 
was the sacrifice with which God was well pleased : 
and you, the Christian, will come forward with blood 
upon your hands also, e I knew that thou gavest thy 
' Son for my sacrifice, and commandedst me to lead 
e my offspring in the way of everlasting life ;' but the 
command ' was too hard for me, to teach them thy 
- statutes and to set them my humble example : I 
' have let them go the broad way to destruction, and 
I their blood is upon my hand — and my heart — and 
' my head/ The Indian will come forward, and say, 
c Behold, I am come from the wood, the desert, and 

5 the wilderness, where I fled from the cheerful soci- 
c ety of my fellow-mortals because I thought it was 
c pleasing in thy sight/ And the Christian will come 
forward and say, c Behold, I come from my comfort- 
' able home and the communion of my brethren, which 

6 thou hast graciously permitted me to enjoy ; but I 
6 thought it too hard to give them a share of those 
' blessings which thou hast bestowed upon me ; I 
c thought it too hard to give them a portion of my 
e time, my trouble, my fortune, or my interest ; I 
' thought it too hard to keep my tongue from cursing 
' and reviling, my heart from hatred, and my hand 
' from violence and revenge/ What will be the an- 
swer of the Judge to the poor Indian, none can pre- 



SERMON X. 291 

sume to say. That he was sadly mistaken in the 
means of salvation, and that what he had done could 
never purchase him everlasting life, is beyond a doubt ; 
but yet, the Judge may say, " Come unto me, thou 
u heavy-laden, and I will give thee the rest which 
" thou couldst not purchase for thyself/' But, to the 
Christian, " Thou, who hadst my easy yoke, and my 
" light burden ; thou, for whom all was already pur- 
chased" Thank God! it is not yet pronounced: 

— begone ! and fly for thy life ! 

We have now compared the Christian yoke with 
that of others, — we have looked abroad for compari- 
son. We have next to look at home, and compare it 
with those yokes which the Christian yoke displaces, — 
those yokes which are flung off when this is assumed. 

There is the yoke of pride: — and who has not felt 
its weight ? There is scarcely a day of our lives in 
which our pride is not hurt. Sometimes we meet with 
direct affront ; at other times, we do not think we are 
treated with the respect we deserve; at other times, 
we find that people do not entertain the opinion of us 
which we would wish them to hold ; but, above all, 
how often do we find ourselves lowered in our own 
i opinion ; and then the yoke of pride becomes more 
uneasy by our endeavours to regain our own good 
opinion, and to hide the real state of the case from our 
conscience. 

But the Christian's yoke is humility ; its very na- 
ture depends upon humility : for no one has submitted 
to the service of Christ, or become his disciple, until 



292 SERMON X. 

fully sensible of his own unworthiness, and,, conse- 
quently, of his want of the merits of a Redeemer. 
Thus has the Christian become acquainted with the 
plague of his own heart, — his sin has been often be- 
fore him; and, however deeply he may lament its 
guilt, he has lost that blind and haughty self-suffi- 
ciency that makes him uneasy at the neglect of others, 
or afraid to stand the scrutiny of self-examination. 

There is the yoke of debauchery and sensuality : 
- that galling yoke, which even those who wear it can- 
not bear to think upon ; and, therefore, they still con- 
tinue to plunge into drunkenness and profligacy lest 
they should have time to think on their lost and dis- 
graceful situation. Those miserable men, when the 
carousal and the debauch are over, then begin to feel 
the weight and the wretchedness of the yoke that they 
are bearing. They then feel what it is to load their 
bodies with pain and disease, and their everlasting 
souls with every foul and sinful thought; — to have 
brutalised their nature, or to have sunk it, by in- 
toxication, into a state of which brutes seem incapa- 
ble; — and they then feel the weight of their yoke, 
when this indulgence has put them into such a state 
of madness and insensibility, that they may commit a 
crime which will be the yoke and the burden of their 
consciences for the rest of their lives. Is it necessary 
to compare the Christian yoke with this ? We will 
not disgrace it by naming it in the same breath. 

Then there is the yoke of covetousness : and who 
does not know all the cares, all the watchings, all the 







SERMON X. 293 

restless days and sleepless nights,, — and,, after all, the 
endless disappointments that the most prosperous and 
successful will have to encounter through life ? And 
then the fearful anticipation of that day, when a man 
shall find that all these things are as if they had never 
been! 

The Christian, indeed, has his fears and his trem- 
blings, — his watchings and his prayers; and he has 
to bear his burden through the strait gate along a nar- 
row way. But richer than all that misers ever dream- 
ed of, or fancied, is the treasure over which he watches ; 
and its attainment is as much more certain, as its 
value is more lasting and more glorious : " Seek, and 
ye shall find," sounds sweetly in his memory, and 
hope already represents the heaven to which he is ap- 
proaching ; and the love of Christ, and the power of 
his Spirit, and the conviction that the Lord is on his 
side, and that " He is able to keep that which is com- 
mitted to him," will make his cares and his watch- 
ings more delightful than the rich mans repose. 

ye sinners ! who have set your hearts upon the 
world and its vanities, and who say that the Lord is 
a hard task-master ; and who think that the spiritual 
delights of his service, even upon this miserable earth, 
are all vain imaginations, — if you do not believe that 
the Lord will fulfil his promise upon earth, do you 
mean to say that you believe he will fulfil his pro- 
mises in heaven ? Do you pretend that you trust in 
Christ for acceptance in another world when you 
doubt his good promise in this? Do you mean to 



294 SERMON X. 

say, that you believe that he is able and willing to 
raise your vile body at the last day, and that he is 
not able and willing to support you under any spiritual 
sacrifice that you may make for his sake — that he is 
not able to change and purify your old heart ? Do 
you really believe the one without the other ? 

But the grand difference between the Christian and 
the man of the world is, that the burden of the one 
is gathering as he proceeds, while that of the other is 
becoming lighter and more easy ; the man of carnal 
mind and worldly affections clings more and more to 
his beloved earth, and new cares thicken around his 
death-bed; — his burden is collecting as he advances, 
and when he comes to the edge of the grave it bears 
him down to the bottom like a mill-stone. But the 
Blessed Spirit, by gradually elevating the Christian's 
temper and desires, makes obedience become more easy 
and delightful, until he mounts into the presence of 
God, where he finds it " a service of perfect freedom." 



SERMON XL* 



Preached at St. Werburgti s Church, for the Parochial 
School of St. Audeon, 27th June, 1818. 



Roman's, v. (part of the 12th Verse.) 
Py one man sin entered into the world. 

It is a gloomy thought, that we were once better 
than we are : many a generous spirit has had life em- 
bittered by such a recollection ; and a similar feeling 
is naturally excited when we consider that we are 
degraded beings in the scale of creation, and that we 
have lost the attitude which we were intended to 
maintain among the works of God. 

It is indeed easily said, with a sigh, that we are 
fallen beings, — and it is easily forgotten again. But 
when this humiliating truth has once taken possession 

* This was one of the author's earliest sermons : it has 
been transcribed for the press from several detached frag- 
ments of paper, and it is supposed that parts of it have been 
lost, which accounts for some apparent incoherency in the 
plan. However, imperfect as it is, it may not appear un- 
worthy of a place in this Collection, as a specimen of the 
author's first addresses from the pulpit. — Editor. 



296 sermon xr. 

of the mind ; when it ceases to be a mere verbal ad- 
mission, and becomes a living and habitual principle, 
it is surprising what a powerful ascendancy, and what 
a purifying influence it exercises over the heart and 
the faculties : how it quenches the fiery and restless 
spirit within us ; how it subdues much of what is bold 
and daring in the disposition ; how it hangs like a dead 
weight upon many a haughty and aspiring thought ; 
how it crushes many a proud and ambitious purpose 
in the dust ! — and it is well that it should be so. It 
is no great proof of courage to carry a higher spirit in 
the sight of God while we are moving through life, 
than we expect to sustain when we are stretched faint 
and powerless upon our death-beds ; or to tread with 
a firmer step and a loftier port upon the face of the 
earth, than when we are advancing to the throne of 
God at the day of judgment. 

But if a sense of our degeneracy represses all the 
proud and rebellious principles of our nature, it is cal- 
culated to draw forth in a peculiar manner all that is 
humble, and kind, and amiable, and affectionate ; — 
it teaches us to look upon others with a pity inspired 
by our own experience: — it calls upon us loudly to 
make common cause against the misfortunes of our 
common situation ; for it is a grand principle insinu- 
ated into our nature by the Deity, that we are more 
intimately linked together by a sense of common dan- 
ger than by a state of common security. Humility is 
the true source of Christian benevolence ; humility, 
that reads its own lot in that of a fellow-creature, — 



SERMON XI. 297 

that reminds us '? that all have sinned/' and that 
therefore we are all strangers and pilgrims on the 
earth. It does not, like the benevolence of the world, 
seat you upon an eminence, from which, like some su- 
perior being, you may fling a scanty and occasional 
pittance to the wretches whom you see struggling be- 
neath ; but it places you with them, side by side, 
toiling onward the same way, only better furnished 
for the journey, and called on by the voice of God and 
all the charities of the human heart to reach forth your 
hand to your weaker and more helpless fellow tra- 
vellers. 

v The fall of man, and the consequent deterioration 
of our nature, has been ridiculed by many of the ene- 
mies of Christianity as fabulous and unphilosophical ; 
but it should be recollected, that we cannot indulge a 
single hope of ever rising to a higher state of being, 
without admitting an equal probability, in the nature 
of things, that we have fallen from it : we must give 
up our hopes of a more spiritualised and glorious ex- 
istence, and condemn the human race to utter annihi- 
lation, upon the same principle on which we deny the 
possibility of our corruption and degeneracy : and if 
we attentively observe the features of the nature to 
which we belong, we shall perceive a struggle between 
different principles, and a discordance of feeling in the 
same person at different periods, that we often un- 
consciously regard as the conflict of two contending 
natures. 

We have, indeed, but a slight account of the state 



298 SERMON XI. 

from which we fell : perhaps it would have been use- 
less to have described it more circumstantially — we 
might not be capable of understanding it. The pro- 
phet seems to have exhausted description, when he 
tells us, that we were made in the image of God ; so 
that, if we wish to ascertain what we were, it would 
seem we must look to the Deity himself. This would 
be a bold task, even though we undertook it for the 
purpose of humbling ourselves to the dust. But there 
is one circumstance related which helps us to under- 
stand in what consists our humiliation : — when Adam 
had sinned, he shrunk from the voice of God. The 
presence of that gracious Being, who was identified 
with every blessing that he enjoyed, was before grate- 
fully and gladly encountered : the thought of God was 
above him, and enveloped him, and he could throw his 
heart open, fearlessly, before him, and show him his 
own image. But now, how many of the thoughts of 
our heart would be put to flight by one glance of God 
into our souls ! how many of our pleasures would va- 
nish before the idea of his presence ! We know too 
well what an enemy to many of our favourite pursuits 
is the God u who is of purer eyes than to behold ini- 
quity ; and when we hear his voice, we attempt to shut 
ourselves from his view by excluding him from our 
thoughts, as if, under the shelter of such a subterfuge 
as this, we could elude either his scrutiny or his ven- 
geance ; and if nothing occurred to seize our attention 
by surprise, or force our minds upon the consideration, 
perhaps the first thing that would awaken us to a just 






SERMON XI. 299 



sense of our situation would be the sound of the last 
trumpet ! 

But sometimes we have strange misgivings. In the 
depth of the night, when we are left to darkness, to 
silence, and ourselves, the utter stillness, and the blank 
void that surrounds us sometimes bring a powerful 
sense of God's presence along with them, — and the 
more we attempt to escape it, the more palpably it 
seems to gather around us in the obscurity. Some way 
or other, man can never be totally alone ; the very ab- 
sence of every other being, and of every other object of 
sense or thought, appears almost necessarily and irre- 
sistibly to suggest the presence of God. Then, when 
we seem to feel ourselves, as it were, under the imme- 
diate pressure of the Almighty, the thought will occur, 
' Was he not equally present this day and every mo- 
( ment of my life ? and yet how little have I been 
c influenced in my heart, conversation, and conduct, by 
' the sense that his eye was everlastingly open upon 
c me, as it is at this instant V 

In the fire and vigour of active life, man devotes all 
his energies, faculties, and exertions to the attainment 
of some favourite object, and pursues it, as if it were 
immortality itself, with a fond and desperate idolatry. 
The fatal remark, that all he seeks is " vanity/' in- 
trudes into his conversation, or suggests itself in his 
schemes. He gives it the usual tribute that is paid to 
most moral truths — a sign of acknowledgment, then 
hurries on, snatching his joys, and struggling through 
his difficulties, until a blow is struck ! His hope, 



300 SERMON XI. 

upon which he built his happiness, is shivered; he 
stands aghast, like one startled from a dream, and the 
common and monotonous truth, that all he seeks is 
" vanity," comes upon him, like something strange 
and oracular, with a painful and bewildering novelty, 
arising from the consciousness that it had long been 
sounding in his mind and echoing in his fancy, but 
had never before reverberated to his heart. Then, at 
length, when he has no other object to which he can 
turn either for pursuit or relief, for activity or repose, 
he thinks of turning himself to his God ; and the 
thought will occur, c If I had served my God as I have 
' pursued this earthly object, he would not have de- 
■ serted me :' the thought will occur, € If God had of- 
c fered me immortal happiness, such as eye hath not 
6 seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered into the 
e heart of man to conceive, merely if it were then the 
' first object of my desires, — to me it had been lost ! 
'- My affections never ascended into heaven, they went 
c wandering to and fro upon the earth, seeking rest and 
' finding none/ We then learn the nature of sin, — we 
learn that we have forsaken God, and that we have 
not only lost immortality, but even a relish for its en- 
joyments. 

The very pleasures we are capable of enjoying ex- 
hibit something ruinous in their nature. In the course 
of our lives we find that evil is not only perpetually 
interchanging with good, but that it is actually ne- 
cessary to its very existence. If we attentively ob- 
serve our pleasures, we shall find that many of them 



SERMON XI. 301 

partake of its nature ; and if it is often an interrup- 
tion to our enjoyment s, it is still oftener, perhaps al- 
ways, either their chief cause, or one of their necessary 
ingredients. Our passion for variety is an evident 
proof of this : we are so far from having a lively idea 
of smooth and uninterrupted happiness, that the most 
luxuriant description soon becomes languid and unin- 
teresting : while the mournful, the terrible, the abrupt, 
possess a strange and mysterious attraction, which 
seldom loses its influence over our minds. Our great- 
est pleasures are often only escapes from pain ; — often 
grow in proportion to it, are often heightened by con- 
trast : and many can reflect with pleasure upon the 
bitterest grief, in recollecting the sweetness of the 
consolation by which it was followed. Such is the 
incomprehensible nature to which we belong ! We 
are perpetually flying from evil, and meeting it at 
every turn in the shape of good ; — pursuing good, and 
finding it evil in disguise : — talking of happiness, 
without well knowing what it means. 

In such a state as this, when we knew not whither 
we were tending, and while no light was thrown 
across the grave into another world, it is natural to 
suppose that we felt comparatively little in each 
other's fate. Yet even in a more hopeless state than 
this, does our great poet represent the fallen angels 
consoling each other in their melancholy destiny, for 
whom no gospel ever sounded, and no Saviour ever 
bled, to cheer them into exertion, and to consecrate 
their communion. But to us has he come : and if he 



302 SERMON XI. 

had never said, " As I have loved you, so love one 
another;" if he had never said, " What you give 
" unto these little ones is given unto me/' would not 
the sense of your common fall animate you to assist 
them to a common renovation ? 

And let it not be forgotten, that the charity of a 
Christian and of a man of the world are far asunder. 
The charity of the man of the world is bestowed as the 
gift of some superior being to a creature of a lower 
order , the charity of the Christian is the self-devotion 

of Paul for his brethren of the same great family. 

* # % # 

Perhaps we were destined to have risen into the 
rank of angels ; perhaps we were destined to have be- 
come ministering spirits to such beings as ourselves. 

And if there were then any guilty world which had 
rebelled against its Creator, and which he had flung 
from him, in his wrath, among the refuse of creation ; 
and if it contained sin, and misery, and death, rob- 
beries, murders, adulteries ; if its inhabitants had for- 
gotten their God, as if he had never existed, and 
riveted their affections upon the few perishable bless- 
ings that were not yet taken away; if, at the same 
time, there still remained some fragments of a grander 
nature, — some scanty gleams of a brighter intellect, — 
some faint and transitory glowings of purer and holier 
affections, — some few traits of resemblance to that 
happy nature which we enjoyed ; it might have been 
one of our permitted occupations to visit, at certain 
intervals, this ruined people. Then might we have 



SERMON XL 303 

enjoyed that light and easy charity which we must not 
now dare to arrogate to ourselves,, — the condescending 
benevolence of superior beings to their fallen and de- 
graded inferiors. If, while we were wandering through 
the universe and exploring the infinity of God,, the 
sound of sorrow and despair were to reach us from 
some distant and passing worlds we might turn aside, 
for a moment, out of our course, and drop the con- 
solation, without looking into the misery that we re- 
lieved. We might make our visits as we pleased, 
and ease a grief or share a joy, as either was pre- 
sented to our view ; and if their Creator again looked 
graciously upon that abandoned race, and sent a Sa- 
viour to bring them back within reach of his goodness, 
we might come down softly upon the shepherds of that 
people, as they were keeping watch over their flocks 
by night, with good tidings of great joy, or bear the 
spirits of the redeemed from a world of restlessness into 
their everlasting repose. But this is not the charity 
for such beings as we are, either to receive or give. 
Our salvation was not effected by such happy beings 
as these: — it was by one who was " a man of sor- 
row, and acquainted with grief." 

It is a cruel mockery of our nature to represent 
Christian charity with all the decorations of a heathen 
goddess, and arrayed in the fond and romantic orna- 
ments that charm and invite the imagination. Alas ! 
Christian charity has no wings to bear her through a 
purer and loftier atmosphere, while she showers down 
blessings upon the multitude beneath : she does not 



304? SERMON XI. 

drop the sheaf into the poor man's bosom,, or the gar- 
land upon his cottage, while she passes in her car of 
triumph over his head. But sometimes she is found 
in the most loathsome of human habitations, and in 
contact with wretches, from whose guilt or whose mi- 
sery the moral sense recoils, and at which the refine- 
ment of education shudders in disgust : sometimes her 
figure is scarcely discernible while she struggles her 
lonely and weary way through the crowd of poverty, 
impurity, and sin : she may be seen turning into the 
dark and comfortless hovel, and speaking the blessed 
gospel of God, over the dying embers of a winter's fire, 
to the shivering, perhaps hardened beings that sur- 
round it : at other times, she stands over the damp 
and squalid bed, where the frame is racked with suf- 
fering and disease, where perhaps conscience is doing 
her angry work, or is lying, still more fearfully, asleep. 
It is folly to attempt to reconcile this to the Christian's 
mind by painting her with the graces and the virtues 
in her train. Alas ! even the blessed beings that are 
then perhaps actually around him, — the constituted 
authorities of heaven, that minister to a Christian's 
imagination, and upon which his fancy is permitted to 
repose,— even these often appear to forsake him ; the 
guardian-angel seems to stand far aloof above the cabin 
that is the scene of pollution and depravity ; the wav- 
ing of golden pinions is but dimly seen through the 
soiled and shattered lattice ; the song of cherubim and 
seraphim is only heard faintly, aloft and at a distance, 
through broken intervals, between the shrieks of bodily 



SERMON XI. 305 

pains, or the groans of mental agony ! But the Chris- 
tian recollects that there was one gracious Being who 
went before him, and who left an invigorating spirit 
behind him, whose office was to support those whom 

all the world had forsaken. 

* * * * 

Suppose it were suddenly revealed to any one among 
you, that he, and he alone of all that walk upon the 
face of this earth, was destined to receive the benefit 
of his Redeemer's atonement, and that all -the rest of 
mankind was lost — and lost to all eternity ; it is hard 
to say what would be the first sensation excited in 
that man's mind by the intelligence. It is indeed 
probable it would be joy — to think that all his fears 
respecting his eternal destiny were now no more ; that 
all the forebodings of the mind and misgivings of the 
heart — alTthe solemn stir which we feel rising within 
us whenever we look forward to a dark futurity, — to 
feel that all these had now subsided for ever, — to 
know that he shall stand in the everlasting sunshine 
of the love of God ! It is perhaps impossible that all 
this should not call forth an immediate feeling of de- 
light : but if you wish the sensation to continue, you 
must go to the wilderness ; you must beware how you 
come within sight of a human being, or within sound 
of a human voice ; you must recollect that you are 
now alone upon the earth ; or, if you want society, 
you had better look for it among the beasts of the 
field than among the ruined species to which you be- 
long; unless indeed the Almighty, in pity to your 

x 



306 SERMON XI. 

desolation, should send his angels before the appointed 
time, that you might learn to forget in their society 
the outcast objects of your former sympathies. But 
to go abroad into human society, — to walk amongst 
beings who are now no longer your fellow-creatures, — 
to feel the charity of your common nature rising in 
your heart, and to have to crush it within you like a 
sin, — to reach forth your hand to perform one of the 
common kindnesses of humanity, and to find it wither- 
ed by the recollection, that however you may mitigate 
a present pang, the everlasting pang is irreversible ; to 
turn away in despair from these children whom you 
have now come to bless and to save (we hope and 
trust both here and for ever !) — perhaps it would be 
too much for you ; at all events it would be hard to 
state a degree of exertion within the utmost range of 
human energy, or a degree of pain within the farthest 
limit of human endurance, to which you would not 
submit, that you might have one companion on your 
lonely way from this world to the mansions of happi- 
ness. But suppose, at that moment, that the angel 
who brought the first intelligence returns to tell you 
that there are beings upon this earth who may yet be 
saved, — that he was before mistaken, no matter how, — 
perhaps he was your guardian angel, and darted from 
the throne of grace with the intelligence of your sal- 
vation without waiting to hear the fate of the rest of 
mankind, — no matter how, — but he comes to tell you 
that there are beings upon the earth who are within 
the reach of your Redeemer's love, and of your own, 



SERMON XI. 307 

— that some of them are now before you, and their 
everlasting destiny is placed in your hands; then, 
what would first occur to your mind? — privations, 
dangers, difficulties ? No : but you would say, Lord, 
what shall I do? shall I traverse earth and sea, 
through misery and torment, that of those whom thou 
hast given me I may not lose one ? 

vfc V& W TS» 

We are not indeed called to perform duties to such 
an awful extent, but we are called upon to perform 
several duties of the same description. It may be 
yours to move amongst your fellow-citizens, diffus- 
ing a Christian's charity and a Christian's example 
through many a circle of society; to heal many a 
broken heart ; to cheer many a wounded spirit ; at 
least you will not forsake these children : — that indeed 
should be your light and delightful duty. On the 
mature and the aged, many a gift falls dead and un- 
valued — many a seed is sown that never springs into 
harvest. But here, where youth is flexible and genial 
(and the decency in which they now stand before you 
proves how the seed is cultivated), every grain that 
you sow may bring forth an hundred-fold, bearing 
fruit to everlasting life. 



SERMON XII. 



1 Corinthians, xiii. 12 and 13. 

Now we see through a glass darkly ; but then, face to face : 
now I know in part, but then shall I know, even as also I 
am known. And now abideth Faith, Hope, Charity, — these 
three ; but the greatest of these is Charity. 

It must sometimes appear very extraordinary, that 
God has not thought fit to give us more information 
respecting the pains and pleasures of the world to 
which we are fast approaching. We know, indeed, 
that there are the torments of hell and the delights of 
heaven; — that there are sufferings, compared with 
which, all the misery that we can undergo upon the 
earth would appear rest and tranquillity; and that 
there is a fulness of joy that would make all earthly 
happiness seem " vanity and vexation of spirit." 

This ' ■ we see in a glass darkly :" but when we 
attempt to explore those glorious mansions of unex- 
tinguishable happiness, or those awful regions of hope- 
less misery, or to discover of what particular kind are 
those sufferings and those enjoyments, our search is 
stopped. We find that, in a great measure, " clouds 
and darkness rest upon them," and that we shall not 
well comprehend their nature, until the day when we 



SERMON XII. 309 

shall be wrapped in the flames that shall never be 
quenched,, or mantled in the glories that shall shine as 
the firmament, for ever and ever. 

It is very natural that our curiosity should feel 
mortified at the disappointment; but, besides, we 
cannot help conceiving that if we were better ac- 
quainted with these punishments and these enjoy- 
ments, we should be more powerfully restrained from 
sin and more vigorously excited to obedience. We 
cannot help thinking, that if the miserable man who 
is storing up " wrath for himself against the day of 
vengeance," — in drunkenness and debauchery, in an 
unholy conversation, in an old heart, unchanged and 
unsanctified, — only knew what were the particular 
agonies that awaited him in the world to come, he 
could not proceed in his course of misery and per- 
dition ; and if the Bible contained a history of the 
dismal abode to which he is approaching, with a mi- 
nute and circumstantial account of all its chambers of 
horrors, and this wretched man were to study before- 
hand the sufferings into which he was plunged, — it 
seems to our frail conceptions impossible, that he 
would not cast himself upon his knees, and smite upon 
his breast, saying, i{ God be merciful to me a sinner !" 
And, on the other hand, we cannot help fancying that 
if the glories of everlasting felicity were more distinctly 
revealed to the humble and contrite, who are bearing 
their cross and following their Redeemer, they would 
encounter temptation with greater vigour and resolu- 
tion, when the crown that was purchased for them 



310 SERMON XII. 

was hanging distinctly in view, and they had a clear- 
er and more lively representation of the immortality 
to which they were advancing. 

But the fact seems to be, that in our present state 
we are not capable of more than is already revealed. 
The great probability is, that these pains and these 
pleasures can never be understood except by actual 
experience, — except by being actually suffered, or 
actually enjoyed. This seems to be intimated by 
the apostle in the verse immediately preceding those 
before us : — " When I was a child I spake as a child, 
" I thought as a child ; but when I became a man, I 
" put away childish things." He describes our state 
in this life as one of infancy or childhood, in which 
our language, and our notions of things, must be suit- 
ed to our childish capacities, Now we know, or we 
ought to know, what a privilege it is to receive an 
education that cultivates and informs our minds, — 
that enables us to read the word of God, and to un- 
derstand as much of his will as has been revealed. In 
fact, what would we take in exchange ? And yet we 
know how fruitless it would be, when we were first 
commencing to instruct a child in spelling, if we should 
endeavour to excite it to diligence, by descanting on 
the miseries of ignorance, or enlarging on the advan- 
tages of education, and all the pleasures that it afford- 
ed, — or by attempting to disclose the treasures that 
the word of God contains. We should see clearly that 
such things were beyond its capacity ; and that, be- 
fore it could comprehend all these pleasures and ad- 



SERMON XII. 311 

vantages, it must understand them nearly as well as 
we ourselves. 

So it is with us, in some degree, in this mortal 
state. We are mere children, and incapable of ade- 
quately comprehending the things that belong to a 
more advanced condition of existence. But all of 
which we are capable our blessed Father has given. 
Let us return to the example with which the apostle 
has supplied us, 

When you found yourself unable to make your child 
comprehend, before it could read, the advantages and 
peculiar blessings of a good and religious education, by 
what means would you induce it to submit to your 
commands ? You would first endeavour to supply it 
with an implicit confidence both in your wisdom and 
your good- will : you would endeavour to make it feel, 
that though it could not perceive the use of what you 
were teaching, you were certainly working for its 
good : you would show it by your kindness and your 
love, — by all the sacrifices you were willing to make 
for its comfort and welfare, that you could have no- 
thing but its happiness in view ; and thus its confi- 
dence in your wisdom, your good- will, and affection, 
would stand instead of an actual knowledge of the ad- 
vantages to be derived from the instructions you were 
conveying — advantages which, we have already seen, 
it could not yet comprehend. 

And thus does our Father deal with us. We are 
poor, ignorant, and helpless children, who do not un- 
derstand either all the miseries of sin, or all the glories 



312 SERMON XII. 

of a noble and more exalted state. Such knowledge 
is too wonderful for us; we cannot attain unto it, 
But the gracious Lord, in place of this knowledge, has 
given us Faith, — a ground of trust and confidence in 
him, that may induce us to learn his law, and to sub- 
mit ourselves, our souls and bodies, to his good go- 
vernment. What proofs has he not given us of his 
wisdom, his good- will, and his affection ? We need 
mention but one. We need not even speak of all the 
noble faculties with which he has endowed us, all the 
gifts that he has showered upon our unworthy heads, 
— health, strength, home, and friends, — comforts and 
blessings that cannot be counted. We need mention 
but one, — " He that spared not his own Son, but gave 
" him for us, how shall he not, with him, freely give 
u us all things ?" This is the great ground of a 
Christian's faith — that for us blind, childish, corrupt, 
and guilty sinners, (so far from deserving — incapable 
even of understanding the enjoyments of a future and 
holy state) he gave his own Son ! What earthly pa- 
rent is entitled to this confidence ? if we had waited 
for such a proof of the kindness of an earthly father 
before we had submitted ourselves to his guidance, we 
should have been now naked, dark, and wandering sa- 
vages. One would have thought that we might have 
given our gracious Father credit for his good intentions; 
but, though we knew God, we glorified him not as 
God. It was not enough ; for though the " ox knoweth 
his owner, and the ass his master's crib," we went 
after our own lusts and imaginations, we would not 



SERMON XII. 313 

believe what we did not understand, — the miseries of 
the guilty, and the joys of the righteous. We would 
not believe them, so as to purify our hearts and change 
our lives and conversations. Yet he would win our 
confidence, — he would engage our affections, — he would 
make us regard him as a Father, and obey him as a 
Father, and iC he spared not his own Son." And thus 
as the earthly father, instead of vainly attempting to 
describe to his child all the blessings and pleasures of 
good habits and a religious education, would inspire 
him with a trust in his good intentions, — so God, when 
nothing else could save us, delivered up his own Son ; 
and thus convinces us what good things he has in store 
for them that love him, that we might be willing to 
forsake our own ways — the ways of ruin and misery, 
and submit to be taught, to be educated, to be directed 
by him ; and therefore does he declare, (C Except ye 
(C be converted, and become as little children, ye can- 
" not enter the kingdom of heaven." 

Thus faith abideth instead of knowledge, and is to 
produce the same effect. It is instead of the knowledge 
of the miseries of hell and the glories of heaven : for 
what must we believe them to be, if it cost the blood 
of the Son of God to deliver us from the one, and to 
purchase for us the other ? 

But this is not all. When your child had been led 
to repose his confidence in your good intentions, and 
had accordingly submitted his will to yours, and con- 
sented to be taught, controlled, and directed by your 
instructions and commands, — as he advanced and im- 



314 SERMON XII. 

proved, you would attempt to give him some distant 
idea of the good and glorious effects of the discipline to 
which he was submitting : as his mind became more 
enlarged, you would find him better able to compre- 
hend the happy consequences. You would soon re- 
lease him from the bare necessity of taking your word 
that you were working for his good. He would soon 
learn to guess, from the progress he had already made, 
the noble advantages that were to follow : he would 
see them, but still, through a glass, darkly : and thus 
hope would be added to faith. 

Thus does our Father educate those who have first 
submitted themselves, soul and body, to his govern- 
ment, with implicit and unbounded faith that he will 
work all for their good. To those who thus with 
humble faith renounce their own ways, and say, " Not 
my will, but thine be done/' he soon causes a light to 
spring ; he gives them a hope, — a hope of the parti- 
cular kind of good things which he has in reserve for 
them. Thus saith St. John : " Beloved, now are we 
<c the sons of God ; and it doth not yet appear what 
" we shall be ; but we know^ that when he shall ap- 
" pear we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he 
" is." Here is the hope of the Christian, that he shall 
be made like the Saviour ; that he shall see him and 
shall always enjoy his presence : and St. Paul tells 
us, that " we are come to the heavenly Jerusalem, — 
" to an innumerable company of angels, to the gene- 
" ral assembly and church of the first-born whose 
" names are written in heaven, and to the spirits of 






SERMON XII. 315 



"just men made perfect." This is the Christian's 
hope — that he shall be like the Saviour, — that he 
shall enjoy the everlasting presence of God, and the 
society of angels, and of just men made perfect. He 
has his eye raised above the earth, and fixed upon 
objects far above mortal vision, but not out of the 
sight that God has quickened and enlightened : and, 
in comparison with the glories that shall be revealed, 
earthly pleasures dwindle and melt down into no- 
thing* 

Thus abideth hope instead of knowledge. Like 
the patriarch in days of old, who said, " I beseech 
thee, show me thy glory ;■' who was told, " thou 
u canst not see my face, and live : but thou shalt 
" stand upon a rock (and that rock was Christ), and 
n it shall come to pass, when my glory passeth by, 
" that I will put thee in a cleft of the rock, and I 
" will cover thee with mine hand while I pass by, 
" and will take away mine hand, and thou shalt 
" see my skirts, but my face shall not be seen:" — 
thus are we in a cleft of a rock, and his hand covers 
us, and we see the dim light of his skirts as he passes 
by ; but our flesh rests in hope that we shall one day 
see his face. 

But this is not all. When your child has made 
some considerable progress, and, resting on faith and 
animated by hope, has acquired larger faculties and 
greater knowledge, and has actually employed that 
knowledge in an active life, and used it for its proper 
purposes, — then you can say to him, c Now you need 



316 SERMON XII. 

not merely rely upon my word;' now you need not 
even feed upon hope ; but now feel and know of your 
own experience the beauty and delight of the discipline 
to which you have submitted. 

And thus does our Father deal with us in a future 
world. Faith and hope will be no more: they will 
both have done their duty, and we shall bid them 
farewell for ever: we shall then see the things that 
we believed, and enjoy the things that are hoped. 
But charity or love never faileth, for love will live and 
increase to all eternity. In love, we have actual and 
present experience of the future joys of the presence of 
God. Now we believe, not because of thy saying, — 
but we have known and tasted it ourselves. We are 
expressly told that God is love : he is not only bound- 
less in love, but it seems to be almost his very essence. 
It does not say, love to this one, or to that one, but 
— love. 

It is love that delights in God, — in communion 
with him, — in meditation upon his attributes and his 
dispensations, in the imitation of his perfections ; u that 
" suffereth long and is kind ; that envieth not, vaunt- 
" eth not itself, and is not puffed up, doth not behave 
" itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily 
"provoked, thinketh no evil, rejoiceth not in iniquity, 
" but rejoiceth in the truth'* Thus, through love, 
shall we indeed bear the living stamp of Almighty 
God upon our hearts; and heaven will be already 
begun in our souls. Thus shall we learn something 
of the glories that are to come, — something that shall 
be at once both a pledge and foretaste. And thus 



SERMON XII. 317 

also shall the wicked,, and the worldly,, and the carnal 
man, obtain a foretaste of the horror of hell, — and of 
the cup that he is to drain. If, instead of a faith, 
that throws him upon the Lord Jesus Christ, he has 
a trust in himself, and in his worldly possessions, for 
happiness ; if, instead of a hope that raises his eye to 
heaven, his thoughts go downward to the dust upon 
which he treads, and his heart is the abode of car- 
nal, and worldly, and malignant' passions and desires, 
— this man can form some conception of the fearful 
region of misery. He can conceive the opposite of 
that love which constitutes the happiness of the blessed 
spirits above : he can conceive a scene of everlasting 
selfishness and suspicion ; of multitudes of evil beings, 
without one link of affection to unite them ; but the 
everlasting scowl of hatred is upon their brows, and 
the curse upon their lips. This may be a faint anti- 
cipation of those terrible scenes. 

We are here, then, in a state of education for hea- 
ven ; and we may now form some conception of the 
desperate infatuation of those men who leave this 
mighty work for the listlessness of old age, or the 
agonies of a dying bed ! It should be nothing less 
than the business of an education, — an education that 
begins with a faith, that can only rise from a deep 
sense of our own un worthiness and danger, and that 
our sins need the blood of the Son of God ; — that pro- 
ceeds to a hope, which raises the eye and the heart 
from earth to heaven, and changes all our views : and 
then proceeds to charity, which stamps upon us the 
image of the pure and holy God. 



SERMON XIII. 



Ecclesiastes, viii. 11. 

Because sentence against an evil work is not executed speedily, 
therefore the heart of the sons of men is fully set in them to 
do evil. 

If we had seen one of our neighbours struck dead 
by a flash of lightning, just after he had been com- 
mitting one of our favourite sins, it is to be supposed 
it would make a serious impression upon our minds. 
If we afterwards beheld two or three more of our 
acquaintances blotted out of life in the same way, 
and for the same reason, we should probably begin to 
bring the case a little more home to ourselves. If 
there were afterwards another, and another, and an- 
other; and we were in the habit of seeing God's 
wrath executed every day, the moment it was pro- 
voked, it is surprising what a change we should pre- 
sently observe among all the careless and bold-faced 
sinners of society : drunkards shrinking from the flow- 
ing bowl, as if it were filled with poison ; fornicators 
and adulterers rushing from the threshold of the house 
of sin and debauchery, as they would from the flames 
of hell ; liars, swearers, and blasphemers setting their 
finger upon their lips, lest they should perish before the 



SERMON XIII. 319 

evil word was fully pronounced ; thieves, misers, and 
extortioners, flinging away their darling profits, lest 
they should be struck dead as they touched them. 

Then too, when men should see sentence executed 
speedily against evil works, they could not think of 
the sin without thinking of the punishment along with 
it. How cautious should we find them of venturing 
too near sin, even in their tempers and conversation : 
we should see a man turn pale whenever an evil 
thought or an evil wish came into his mind, for how 
could he tell but that the thunderbolt would fall at 
that moment, if he ventured to indulge it ? Then 
should we see men watching and praying, that they 
might not fall into temptation, who never knew what 
it was to pray before ; and, it is probable, that those 
who were witnessing the wrath of God coming down 
every day upon the heads of sinners in fire and brim- 
stone, would be so sensible of their danger and their 
weakness, that they would renounce all trust in their 
own powers and their own righteousness, and seek for 
his glorious strength, who is able to shelter us from 
the storm and the tempest, and to give us the victory 
over sin, through our Lord Jesus Christ, and to make 
us " more than conquerors, through him who loved 
" us, and gave himself for us." 

It seems to be very plain, that something like this 
would be the case if God were to interfere every day 
to execute sentence upon evil works. Now mark the 
difference : only observe with what perfect ease men 
can bring themselves to indulge in sin, as a matter of 



320 SERMON XIII. 

common and ordinary occurrence, as naturally as they 
partake of their sleep or their meals: and they go 
into the way of temptation, and approach the brink 
and the borders of sin, and say, there is no danger ! 

Now what can be the reason of this astonishing dif- 
ference? For every man seems to think that he 
would refrain from sin if he knew that at that instant 
he should stand the consequences. What can be the 
reason of this difference ? Is it that men have calmly 
made up their minds, after enjoying the pleasures of 
sin for a season, to resign themselves quietly and con- 
tentedly to the cc worm that never dieth, and the 
flame that is never quenched V This can hardly be 
the reason : it must be something else — and what is 
it ? The Psalmist has informed us in few words : 
" The wicked hath said in his heart, Thou wilt not 
require it." He does not believe that God will fulfil 
what he has declared; — he does not say so with bis 
outward lips, but he says it in his heart. With his 
outward lips he says, — It is all very true, the sen- 
tence is gone forth : he is a God that will by no means 
clear the guilty : the soul that sinneth it shall die : 
" and cursed is every one that continueth not in the 
law/' It is also true, that " God is not a man, that 
" he should lie, nor the son of man, that he should 
" repent : hath he said, and shall he not do it V It 
would be rather a bold thing for a man to say, in the 
face of all this, that God would not require it. One 
would think we might take God's word for more than 
this ; and yet so it is, that a man, because he does 



SERMON XIII. 321 

not see sentence executed against an evil work, either 
in the case of others or in his own, because he does 
not hear and see God's justice every day in thunder 
and lightning, begins to think that God only wants to 
frighten him by such sentences. There is a chance 
that God may not be in earnest : and upon this chance, 
he plunges in, body and soul. 

It may be well to spend a little time in consider- 
ing this case. Now, before we go a step further, one 
simple question might decide the business. What do 
you think does that man deserve, who ventures his 
eternal soul upon any chance ? Make the chance as 
great and as plausible as you please : suppose, if you 
like, that God had never passed regular sentence upon 
sin; had never published and registered his wrath, 
and that there was only a confused murmur through 
mankind, a light whisper now and then stirring in the 
world, that there was sentence to be executed against 
the soul of ever} 7 man that doeth evil, — that there 
was a hell of torment for the unrighteous and un- 
godly : suppose a man had only a night's dream to 
such an effect : let us be ourselves the judges, — what 
would that man deserve who ventured his eternal 
soul upon such a chance ? Would not any man, who 
held it so cheap as to let it take its chance (be that 
chance great or small), have already sold and forfeited 
it? The mere fact, that he allows any thing like 
chance in such a concern, is enough to turn the chance 
into certainty — certainty of punishment. 

But, in the next place, let us consider for a little 

Y 



322 SEEMON XIII. 

what is the chance that any sinner now sets up against 
the sentence pronounced by the God of Truth. It is, 
— that sentence is not executed speedily; — that he 
has sinned, and no thunderbolt has fallen, no blow 
was struck ; that he has seen his neighbours sin, and 
that then too no thunderbolt has fallen, and no blow 
was struck. Now let us examine this chance for a 
moment, and we shall be surprised to find, that, even 
leaving all the threats and denunciations of Scripture 
out of the account, and taking the world as we see it 
and as we have read its history, there is new proof 
that sentence will be executed in the end. Now, to 
perceive this, observe that in many cases sentence has 
been executed against cc evil works." 

Look to the flood : " When God saw that the 
" wickedness of man was great upon the earth, and 
" that every imagination of the thoughts of his heart 
" was only evil continually, he said, I will destroy 
" man, whom I have created, from the face of the 
" earth, both man and beast, and the creeping thing, 
ic and the fowls of the air ; for it repenteth me that I 
<c have made them ;" and accordingly the flood came 
down upon the world of the ungodly. 

Then look to Sodom and Gomorrah : " Because the 
" cry of Sodom and Gomorrah was great, and their 
" sin very grievous, therefore the Lord rained down 
" brimstone and fire out of Heaven/' Look next to 
Korah, Dathan, and Abiram : "■ Behold, they rebelled 
" against the Lord, and against Moses and Aaron his 
" servants, and the earth opened her mouth, and 



SERMON XIII. 323 

" swallowed them up, and all that appertained to 
i: them." 

Look next to the sentence upon the blasphemer: 
" The son of an Israelitish woman, in a quarrel with 
C( one of the men of Israel, blasphemed the Lord and 
" cursed : and they put him in ward, that the mind 
<c of the Lord might be showed them : and the Lord 
" spake unto Moses, saying, Bring forth him that 
" hath cursed, without the camp, and let all that 
" heard him lay their hands upon his head, and let 
u all the congregation stone him : and they brought 
" forth him that had cursed, and stoned him with 
" stones/' 

Look next to the man who broke the Sabbath: 
" And the Lord said unto Moses, the man shall surely 
" be put to death ; all the congregation shall stone 
" him with stones without the camp ; and they stoned 
" him, that he died." 

Look next to the fornicators, " of which there fell 
" in one day three and twenty thousand ;" cut off in 
their iniquities : their numbers could not save them. 
Look, in fact, at the whole Jewish dispensation, where 
the Almighty often made bare his arm, and executed 
, sentence speedily. 

But look next to the Christian dispensation and 
behold the guilty pair standing before the Apostles : 
iC And though they came with their right hands full of 
" gifts, yet they came with a lie upon their lips ; and 
" the moment it was uttered, they fell down and 
" gave up the ghost." And turn your eyes next to 



324 SERMON XIII. 

Herod,, arrayed in royal apparel, sitting upon his 
throne, and making an oration to the people: and 
hark ! the people are shouting, and saying, " It is the 
voice of a God!" — and while they are shouting, the 
angel of the Lord had smote him. 

Look next to your own observation and experience ; 
and there alone you will find sufficient proof that, in 
many cases, sentence upon evil works has been exe- 
cuted speedily. The course of nature, and the con- 
stitution of society, have been so ordained by the wis- 
dom and the justice of the Almighty, that the crime 
often brings the punishment along with it. The strong 
arm of the law often seizes the malefactor while his 
crime is still fresh upon him, and consigns him at once 
to death and infamy. 

Then, in the next place, God often makes drunkards 
and profligates their own executioners; murdering 
their own bodies, — wasting and withering them with 
surfeit and disease, and making their days few and 
evil ; sick of life, and afraid of death, and crawling 
into their graves before their time. Others execute 
sentence upon themselves, by wasting their substance 
in riotous living, until they become the guests and 
companions of the swine, and men begin to pity and 
despise them. And sometimes the sons become the 
executioners of their fathers, — and men propagate sin 
from generation to generation, and see their own vices 
improved and multiplied in their own children, who 
return them back their own iniquities, with interest, 



into 



SERMON XIII. 32, 



into their bosom, and " bring down their grey hairs 
with sorrow to the grave." 

And in every man's breast there is an executioner 
— that he generally contrives to set asleep ; but some- 
times there comes a shock that rouses it from its 
slumber, and then it begins to lash him and sting him, 
and smite him upon the heart ; so that we may per- 
ceive that in many instances (more perhaps than we 
at first supposed) sentence is executed speedily. 

Now we are prepared to consider the chance upon 
which the sinner relies when he sins, and says in his 
heart, iC Thou wilt not require it." The chance is 
this : I know that sentence is gone forth against every 
evil work, and that it is pronounced by the God of the 
Truth ; but I have sinned — often sinned, and so have 
my neighbours, and the earth did not open her jaws, 
neither did fire and brimstone come down from hea- 
ven, nor did I feel any bad effect arising from it, and 
therefore I have a chance that God will not execute 
the sentence at all. 

Now look at this chance. We have just seen that 
sentence in many cases executed; yet, strange as it 
may appear, this very imperfection seems to be the 
strongest possible proof that, in the next world, ven- 
geance will be fulfilled to the utmost. For observe, if 
we found that every man in this life received just 
what he deserved, and every evil work always brought 
swift punishment along with it, what should we na- 
turally conclude ? There is no future punishment in 



326 SERMON XIII. 

store : I see nothing wanting, every man has already 
received the due reward of his works ; every thing is 
already complete, and, therefore, there is nothing to 
be done in the next world. 

Or if, on the other hand, there were no punishment 
visited upon sin at all in this world, we might be in- 
clined to say, c Tush ! God hath forgotten :' he never 
interferes amongst us ; we have no proof of his hatred 
of sin, or of his determination to punish it ; he is gone 
away far from us, and has left us to follow our own 
wills and imaginations. So that if sentence were 
either perfectly executed upon the earth, or not exe- 
cuted at all, we might have some reason for saying, 
that there was a chance of none in a future world. 
But now it is imperfectly executed ; just so muck done, 
as to say, c You are watched, — my eye is upon you: 
c I neither slumber nor sleep ; and my vengeance 
e slumbereth not/ And yet, at the same time, there 
is so little done, that a man has to look into eternity 
for the accomplishment. 

These occasional visitations of God's wrath, — these 
sentences that sinners are often obliged to execute up- 
on themselves, — these judgments that sometimes fall 
and burst among us, come often enough to tell us, that 
there is punishment ; but so seldom, as to prove that 
it is yet to come. They seem to be rather given as 
evidences, than as fulfilments of the wrath of God ; 
rather as a sign than a part ; just as earthquakes and 
volcanic eruptions only serve to show us what fires 
are burning and labouring in the bowels of the earth. 



SERMON XIII. 227 



The flames of hell seem to break out sometimes before 
their time among men in earthly judgments, — to warn 
them of judgments to come. 

This is the sinner's chance, — that, even if that Bible 
which speaks to him terrible things were a falsehood, 
the very course of nature and the current of human 
affairs furnish the strongest possible proof of — judgment 
to come. " Out of thine own mouth wilt thou be 
condemned ;" — thine own excuse will be thy condem- 
nation. And which of us has not made this excuse ? 
Which of us has not often said, in his heart, C( Thou 
wilt not require it ;*' and sinned in the face of the 
sentence registered against all iniquity, — in the face of 
the sentence registered against fornication, uncleanness, 
inordinate affection, evil concupiscence, and covetous- 
ness, which is idolatry, — against anger, wrath, malice, 
blasphemy, filthy communication, — in the face of the 
sentence registered against all those that forget God ? 
But you will say, — Surely, God is a merciful God! 
Are we not told that he is full of mercies and loving 
kindnesses, that his mercy rejoiceth against judgment, 
that he has sworn as he liveth, " that he hath no 
pleasure in the death of the sinner ?" True : his 
mercy is indeed boundless and astonishing ; amazing, 
beyond what " eye hath seen, or ear heard, or hath 
" entered into the heart of man to conceive/' But 
how has that mercy been shown ? By visiting sen- 
tence to the very uttermost. He did not fling us his 
mercy indolently from his throne; but he executed 
sentence to the very uttermost upon his only begotten 



328 SERMON XIII. 

Son. His mercy does not consist in extinguishing his 
justice,, but in executing it upon the head of the Son in 
whom he was well pleased. Awful mercy ! terrible 
forgiveness ! mercy that we must not dare to trifle 
with. 

Let us be ourselves the judges : if any man makes 
this mercy an argument for sin, what new punishment, 
what fresh torments, how many times must the fur- 
nace be heated for that man, — for him who dares to 
say, Because the Lord Jesus has died for me, I will 
follow my iniquities ! — for him, who would thus make 
Christ the minister of sin ! That blessed mercy — 
that glorious manifestation of infinite love, was always 
used in Scripture as an argument for repentance, for 
holiness, and for all good ; but any man that curses 
God's blessing, by turning it into an argument for con- 
tinuing in sin, — how is he described in Scripture ? He 
is " The enemy of the Cross of Christ ;" and " He 
" crucifies the Son of God afresh, and puts him to an 
"■ open shame \" It had been % good for that man 
that he had never been born." Every hour of sin that 
you add to your life under this dispensation, is gather- 
ing over your head — in judgment. The goodness of 
God, in not cutting you off with your sins still green 
and fresh, is turning every day into wrath. For what 
says the apostle ? " Despisest thou the riches of his 
" goodness, and forbearance, and long-suffering, not 
cc knowing that the goodness of God leadeth thee to 
" repentance;" but, after thy hardness and impenitent 
heart, £C Treasurest up wrath against the day of wrath, 



SERMON XIII. 329 

" and revelation of the righteous judgment of God ?** 
Here you see two things : first, that the goodness of 
God,, in bearing with you thus long, in not blotting you 
out from the face of the earth while you were engaged 
in the last sin that you committed, was leading you to 
repentance ; it cannot lead to mercy but through re- 
pentance : secondly, you see that every time you neg- 
lected and refused, " you have been treasuring up 
" wrath against the day of wrath." There is a treasury 
of vengeance in Heaven : and day by day, and hour 
by hour, you have been casting in your mite. When 
will your cup be full ? Perhaps at this moment it 
may be overflowing ; perhaps the plain simple warning 
that you hear this day may be the last that the Lord 
God will ever vouchsafe to your soul. This at least is 
certain, — that the next time you return to your sin, it 
will be in deliberate defiance of the wrath of the Al- 
mighty. Who shall say, whether you will be allowed 
to make the trial a second time ? Probably your cup 
may then be full — and he may strike you dead upon 
the spot. Or if not, he .may let you live as a monu- 
ment of his vengeance; and as Pharaoh was allowed 
to live, after he had resisted all the means of grace, 
that the Lord might openly manifest his power and his 
justice upon him, God may prolong your life only that 
men may see a sinner gasping without hope upon his 
death-bed, — and, as they look upon the horrors of your 
dying countenance, they may smite their breasts and 
say, " God be merciful to me a sinner !" 



SERMON XIV. 



1 John, iv. 10. 

Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and 
sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins. 

If God had waited until we loved him before he 
loved us, we should not have been assembled here this 
day to read the history of his mercies, and to humble 
ourselves before him, in astonishment at the multitude 
of his loving kindnesses. If God had waited until we 
loved him before he loved us, we should never have 
known what it was to come together on a Sabbath 
morning, to talk of mercy and salvation, and the holy 
charity that binds us to God and to each other : we 
should be now bowing our heads before the works of 
our hands, and the inventions of our own imaginations: 
perhaps, at this instant, we should be met together 
to perform our impure and bloody ceremonies to the 
powers of darkness ; the house which is now the Lord's 
tabernacle, and the place where his honour dwelleth, 
might be the temple in which we adored the god of 
intemperance and sensuality, or made our offerings to 
the wicked spirit that delighteth in war, violence, and 
revenge ; or we might be nocking to the table of our 



SERMON XIV. 331 

evil god — not to eat the bread of life., or to drink from 
the fountains of the living water, but to sound his 
praises in festivals of drunkenness, riot, and indecency; 
or we should be kneeling at his altar — not to offer the 
sacrifice of a broken and a contrite heart, but to wor- 
ship him with the knife, and with the blood of our 
fellow-creatures ; and, perhaps, we should now be pre- 
paring the children that we loved as our own souls, to 
pass through the fire of sacrifice that was kindled in 
his honour, that we might satisfy his fury and avert 

! his indignation. 

It is true, the very mention of these things may 
now shock our feelings, and we may fancy, if we 
please, that no possible conjuncture of circumstances 
could have reduced us to such crimes and enormities : 

i but such was the state of the world at the time that 
the Son of God came down upon the earth, — and we 
shall not find it very easy to prove, either that we are 
a superior race of beings to the men of those days, or 

1 that the natural progress of society has caused the dif- 
ference between them and ourselves. 

The men of those days were our superiors in many 
of the arts of civilised life, and it was then four thou- 
sand years since the creation of the world. The world 
had time enough to have learned how to love God, if 
it could have loved him : but " when they knew God, 
" they glorified him not as God : and their foolish 
ci heart was darkened." They had suffered the know- 
ledge of God to be blotted out of their minds, and of 
course the love of God had disappeared from their 



332 SERMON XIV. 

hearts. Their religion only had showed itself in their 
festivals, — in drunkenness, impurity, and blood: in 
the common course of their lives he was forgotten ; 
and, by the terrible ceremonies by which they at- 
tempted to appease his wrath or conciliate his good- 
will, they proved that they regarded him as their ene- 
my. So that if God had only allowed men to go on 
in the way which they had chosen for themselves, if 
he had not turned to them before they turned to 
him, we should have been now sitting in darkness 
and the shadow of death, sinning on to our ruin, 
without a thought upon the God whom we were of- 
fending. 

But, indeed, it is not necessary to look back to past 
ages in order to make this gloomy discovery. If a 
man looks into his own heart but for one moment, he 
may soon perceive that if God have loved us, it cannot 
be because we had first loved him. 

Among all the natural passions and affections of 
the human heart, where is the love of God to be 
found? We love parent and child, — we love friends 
and country, — we love riches and honour, — we love 
sin in all its shapes, and we embrace it with all our 
souls : these affections take their root in our nature, 
they grow wild in our hearts, and scarcely require 
cultivation. But, instead of finding religion growing 
naturally within, only observe with what care and 
watching and anxiety it must be cherished, and re- 
freshed, and preserved; and if once neglected, yea, 
but for a little, how soon it begins to wither and de- 



SERMON XIV. SS3 

cay ! Any of the other affections of our heart it 
would be almost impossible to get rid of; but to ac- 
quire and cultivate a spirit of religion., is the slow and 
patient work of earnest watchfulness and persevering 
humility. Where is the man amongst us who would 
venture to put up to God such a prayer as this, — Re- 
gard me as I have regarded you ; treat me as I have 
treated you ! For how have we regarded him ? how 
have we treated him ? Really, do we look upon him 
more as a friend or as an enemy ? How often do we 
wish that he was far away,, and that his eye was not 
open upon our hearts,, and that he did not hear the 
words of our lips,, or witness the deeds of our lives ? 
How often would it have been a relief to us to think 
that he was not everlastingly present amongst us? 
Does not our conscience often bear testimony that we 
love the things he hates, by the effort we make to 
forget and to banish him whenever we wish to give 
way to our sinful propensities, or to indulge in pride, 
eovetousness, drunkenness, sensuality, or revenge ? Is 
it not a confession that he is at war with those 
things that we love, and that he who loves sin can- 
not love God? So true is the word of God, which 
says, " He that loveth me keepeth my command- 
ments." 

It is too plain, that if God had cared as little for us 
as we cared for God, we should have been long since 
outcast, forsaken, and forgotten : but " herein is love, 
" not that we loved him, but that he loved us, and 
" sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins." 



334 SERMON XIV. 

And thus it is stated by St. Paul ; " God commend- 
" ed his love to us, in that while we were yet sinners 
" Christ died for us f and again, " When we were 
" enemies, we were reconciled to God by the death of 
" his Son." In these passages we perceive that it 
means the .same thing to be a sinner — to be the ene- 
my of God — and not to love him; and yet for these 
sinners, for these his enemies, he sent his own Son to 
be the propitiation for their sins. 

Herein is love ! The apostle seems to pronounce 
upon, this as if there was no other love in all the world 
besides, — as if every thing like love was swallowed 
up in this boundless profusion of mercies. It is ex- 
traordinary with what cold and composed feelings we 
can read and think of this extraordinary sacrifice. It 
is no doubt impossible to comprehend its full extent ; 
perhaps it is the employment of blessed spirits, for 
ages and ages to come — ay, or for all eternity, to 
make new discoveries in the love of God and the 
death of the Redeemer. Grander knowledge, — new 
blessings, — fresh features, from this wonderful sacri- 
fice, may be showing themselves to the spirits of just 
men made perfect at every moment, world without 
end. They are " things which the angels desire to 
look into." 

But God has given us, perhaps, the fullest idea of 
it that we are capable of conceiving, when he tells us 
that he was his Son — his only Son- It is as if he de- 
sired every one of us to go to his own heart, and 
find out who is the being upon the earth that is dear- 



SERMON XIV. 335 

est to its affections, — husband, wife., or only child; — 
the person whom we regarded with the fondest love 
and the most unbounded delight ; the person in whom 
your whole soul seems to be wrapped up, — in whom 
you almost live, and move., and have your being ; and 
to imagine this object of your hopes and affections 
dashed from a state of happiness, and flung helpless 
into the midst of enemies and persecutors; become 
" despised and rejected of men, a man of sorrows, and 
" acquainted with grief;" and at length brought as a 
lamb to the slaughter, and then descending into the 
grave with torture, insult, and infamy. God himself 
seems to teach us to regard it in this point of view, 
for he said unto Abraham, ". Take now thy son, — 
cc thine only son, Isaac, whom thou lovest." He re- 
peats it, as if for the purpose of cutting the father's 
heart, and giving it a new stab at every word of fond- 
ness. " Take now thy son — thine only son, Isaac, 
" whom thou lovest, and offer him for a burnt offering 
" upon one of the mountains that I will tell thee of." 
Abraham rose up, and took Isaac his son, and went 
unto the place of which God had told him. Then, on 
the way, a conversation occurs, in which every word 
that the son speaks is calculated to make the father's 
heart bleed freshly. It would be an insult to tell a 
father what were Abraham's feelings when he bound 
his son, and took the knife in his hand. At that mo- 
ment, however, the angel of the Lord called out of 
heaven, and bade him stay his hand. But when the 
Son of God bore his cross to the spot of agony and 



336 SERMON XIV. 

shame, and was laid bleeding upon the altar, no 
guardian angel descended to relieve his sufferings; 
and when he cried. cc My God, my God, why hast 
" thou forsaken me V ' the whole host of heaven stood 
still ; no voice of consolation was heard, and no minis- 
ter of mercy descended to save his Son, — his only 
Son, whom he loved. 

Such is the idea that God has given us of his love ; 
but still it is imperfect, for it seems as if every thing 
relating to God was infinite. His power is infinite ; 
and we should judge but poorly of its greatness if we 
measured it by human power. In like manner his 
wisdom is infinite ; and we should never be able to 
conceive its extent by comparing it with the greatest 
wisdom of man. So also may we conclude of his love. 
The sufferings of Christ appear to contain something 
in them indescribable to the human imagination, and 
unfathomable to human discovery. His mysterious 
agony in the garden, the weight of our sins upon his 
soul, and the fearful exclamation, " My God ! my 
" God ! why hast thou forsaken me I" convey .an idea 
of suffering, that we neither do nor can comprehend. 
Such is the love of God manifested upon the cross, — 
the love of God manifest in the flesh ! 

But, we may say, where was the necessity of all 
this vast profusion of suffering, — this expenditure of 
means, — this astonishing machinery of redemption? 
Could not God have forgiven us at a word? Now, 
only consider what idea it is we form of God, when 
we imagine that forgiveness is so very easy a matter. 



SERMON XIV. 337 

We conceive him to be an arbitrary and capricious 
Being, who can make laws and break them at random, 
and fling his pardon to his creatures carelessly from 
his throne. Is this a worthy idea of him " who can- 
(i not lie, and who cannot repent V Recollect that 
mercy, with us, means the reversing 01 a law, the 
changing of an established order of things : our very 
idea of mercy implies an imperfection in the law, in 
the decision upon the law, or in the execution of the 
law. If human laws were perfect, or human judges 
infallible, where would be the room for mercy? It 
was a question reserved for the wisdom of Almighty 
God alone, to prove how justice and mercy could be 
reconciled; to hold forth forgiveness to the offender 
without violating, relaxing, or suspending that law, 
which is u holy, and just, and good/' Accordingly, 
we find that, upon the cross, the violation of that law 
was visited to the uttermost ; that <€ he bore our sins, 
" and earned our iniquities/' — that " the chastise- 
u ment of our peace was upon him :" and thus we are 
told, in the passage before us, that " the love of God 
u was manifested in sending his Son to be the propitia- 
u tion for our sins :" and again, " God was in Christ, 
8 f reconciling the world unto himself/' 

It is a terrible truth, which men would do well to 
recollect more than they do, that the same cross shows 
God's hatred for sin as well as his love for the sinner ; 
the same cross shows that he cannot forgive iniquity, 
and yet that he was willing to visit it upon his own 
Son for our sakes : it shows us his wrath and his love. 



338 SERMON XIV. 

and the one appears to be the measure of the other. 
We have been this day endeavouring to fathom his 
love, — and have found it impossible : and yet the very 
immensity of that love seems to consist in averting 
wrath, that is equally boundless and inconceivable. 
Alas ! alas ! we deceive ourselves strangely by fancy- 
ing that it is an easy thing for God to forgive sin. 
Consider well what it is that makes it such an easy 
thing for you to commit sin ; and you will find that it 
is because you fancy it an easy thing for God to for- 
give it. 

The great and fearful question with every man 
amongst us is, ( Has the blood of Jesus Christ cleansed 
( him from all sin V or, shall he himself abide the aw- 
ful consequences in the eternal world ? For, as surely 
as God is true, one or other of these must be the case. 
The word of God supplies us with the means of judg- 
ment. — " If any man be in Christ, he is a new crea- 
" ture." It seems to be founded upon a principle 
plain and obvious to any man's common sense, — if we 
need no change, we need no mercy. 

He now stands at the door and knocks, and invites 
you to acknowledge yourselves his atHhis table; and 
if we come with but half the good- will with which he 
invites, and waits to receive us, we are blessed and 
happy beings ! Let us beware how we turn our back 
upon it ; or how we take it unworthily. We must 
come to that table, forsaking our sins, which were so 
hateful in the sight of heaven that they crucified the 



SERMON XIV. 339 

Son of God, and forsaking all claims upon the ground 
of our own imperfect righteousness. Let us " make 
" mention of his name only ;" and may we so share 
the fellowship of his sufferings, that we may know the 
power of his resurrection ! Amen. 



SERMON XV. 



1 Corinthians, x. 13. 

There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to 
man : but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be 
tempted above that ye are able ; but will with the temptation 
also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it. 

Perhaps nothing can exceed the efforts of God to 
enable us to overcome temptation, except our own en- 
deavours to disappoint them. There would be some- 
thing amusing, if it were not too terrible to amuse us, 
in observing the riches of our resources, and the furi- 
ous variety of expedients which we have invented for 
trifling with temptation ; forgetting, that to trifle with 
temptation is to trifle with God. 

Some of us plunge into it headlong, — with a sort of 
heedless and frantic desperation, never stopping to 
look to the right hand or to the left, even for the sha- 
dow of an excuse ; shutting our eyes as we hurry on, 
and imagining there is no danger, because we do not 
see it ; flying so rapidly from one temptation to ano- 
ther, that there is no time for thought or reflection be- 
tween ; until at last we arrive, full speed, at the brink 



SERMON XV. 341 

of the grave ! There is no stopping then ; the force 
with which we arrived hurries us onward of its own 
accord; and we are hurled to the bottom, with the 
weight of all the sins we have committed bearing us 
down with greater fury. 

There are others amongst us, who first, without 
any consideration, comply with the temptation, and 
then stop to look about them for the excuse: they 
first commit the sin, not well knowing at the time 
what defence they can make, but trusting to chance, 
or to their own ingenuity, for finding one after- 
wards. 

There are others, more cautious and circumspect, 
who first look round for an excuse ; but the moment 
they see any thing that bears any resemblance to one, 
they are perfectly satisfied. They dare not look that 
way again, lest a second thought should undeceive 
them: it is an excuse as it stands, — but another 
glance, or one moment's closer inspection, might show 
them that all was false and hollow ; and rather than 
be thus undeceived, they take it at the first view, and 
surrender to the temptation, hoping that, because they 
had deceived their own hearts, they have deceived 
One " that is greater than their hearts." However, 
it may be well to study them a little more attentively, 
as one day or other we shall have to look them in the 
face. 

All the excuses which we are in the habit of mak- 
ing, appear to be reducible to two classes ; and, what 
is very remarkable, they contradict each other. One 



342 SERMON XV. 

of these dangerous apologies is, that many of our par- 
ticular temptations are, in their very nature, different 
from those of other men. We often persuade ourselves 
that we are placed in circumstances totally different 
from those in which other human beings are involved ; 
and often fancy that nature has given us passions and 
propensities from which the generality of mankind are 
entirely free, or by which they are much less power- 
fully actuated. Hence we flatter ourselves that our 
situation is so original, and the temptations to which 
we are exposed so unlike those which human nature 
is generally called upon to encounter, that the trans- 
gression into which it leads us is something new — that 
it stands distinct and alone ; and we can scarcely bring 
ourselves to think that God will class it with the or- 
dinary violations of his law, or sentence it to the same 
condemnation. Thus we often go on, imagining that 
many of our transgressions are exceptions to those of 
the generality of men, and that we have made out a 
new case for ourselves in the annals of sin, to plead 
before the throne of God. 

This is one of our excuses : but what is the other ? 
The common frailty of our nature ; the plea that all 
men do the same ; that our sins are such as the bulk 
of mankind commit ; and that we only gratify the 
passions of human nature, or its common weaknesses, 
in complying with such temptations. Now, would it 
not be enough to show the emptiness and silliness of 
these apologies, — to consider, that there is not a single 
sin that we could not justify by such means ? If the 



SERMON XV. 343 

temptation seems to be peculiar to us — not such as 
human nature is in general subject to, the first will 
serve. If it be one to which the generality of man- 
kind are exposed, the second comes to our relief: so 
that we are certain that, if the one fails, the other 
will succeed. One would imagine that this would be 
enough. But the passage before us meets them both. 
As to the first excuse, that there are certain tempta- 
tions peculiar to ourselves, and which we do not share 
in common with our fellow-creatures, it says, " There 
" hath no temptation taken you, but such as is com- 
" mon to man." But, even leaving Scripture out of 
the question, what reason have we to suppose that we 
are an exception to the general laws of human nature ? 
Should we not rather conclude, that men who partake 
of the same nature as ourselves may be subject to the 
very same temptations ? We are all inclined to con- 
ceal " the sins which most easily beset us :" there- 
fore, without our observation, others may be exposed 
to those very trials which we conceive exclusively our 
own, and may, at that instant, be making the very 
same excuse. There is no doubt that men differ very 
much in their character and constitution, and the in- 
gredients of human nature are variously mixed in dif- 
ferent beings. The ruling propensity in one man may 
be avarice ; in another, " evil concupiscence" and de- 
bauchery ; in another, gluttony and drunkenness ; in 
another, ambition ; in another, the predominant pas- 
sion may be, a fondness for mischief, for riot, and 
blood ; while another may be governed by a sottish 



344 SERMON XV. 

indolence, or a wild inconstancy. But, as the apostle 
declares (after enumerating the gifts of the Holy Spirit 
to different men) that ". all these worketh one and 
" the self-same spirit " — the spirit of righteousness, — so 
may it be said of these passions, all these worketh the 
one and the self-same spirit — the spirit of sinful human 
nature. They are the common elements of our na- 
ture, only differently mixed ; but it is generally in 
defence of the chief and ruling passion that we urge 
the first excuse, which we mentioned above : and thus 
every man would yield to the passion to which he was 
most attached, and would embrace the sin he most 
loved. Every man would thus have chosen one part 
of the law which he might break — that part which 
he was always most inclined to break ; and, there- 
fore, the very part which he was bound to be most 
watchful in observing. There chiefly, and because 
it is our ruling passion, and that which exalts itself 
most against the love of God, lies our perilous and 
fiery trial, where our greatest resistance should be 
exerted. 

There remains now only the second excuse — the 
frailty of human nature; the common tendency to 
sin which we all feel. Alas ! this indeed is true : but 
it is equally true that there is u a God of purer eyes 
" than to behold iniquity ;" a God who has said, " The 
" soul that sinneth, it shall die f a God whom, with- 
out holiness, no man shall behold. Yet, even with 
the sense of this present to our minds and our hearts, 
how totally unable do we feel ourselves to make that 



SERMON XV. 345 

great and continued exertion — to effect that complete 
revolution in heart, in conversation, and in practice, 
which shall qualify us to stand before the holiness of 
God! How totally unable do we feel ourselves to 
make any advance even under the consciousness that 
we are bound by his command ; bound by our own 
consciences, — our own hopes and fears ; bound by the 
thoughts of death and life ; bound by the prospect of 
misery or immortality, to lay all our earthly affections 
at his feet, and consecrate our very beings to his ser- 
vice ! How feebly do we attempt to struggle through 
the throng and crowd of temptations that beset and 
besiege us on every side, and that stand between us 
and our God ! The passage before us, in reply to our 
first excuse, declared that there hath no temptation 
taken us that is not common to man ; but what says 
it to our second, —the frailty of our unfortunate na- 
ture ? " God is faithful, who will not suffer you to 
" be tempted above that ye are able." Here, with our 
warning is our great consolation. It is not merely 
that God will assist us, but that he will not suffer us 
to be tempted above that we are able. It is uttered 
in all the majesty of conscious omnipotence. " I will 
Jf not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able." 
It is as if he had promised to work a miracle rather 
than allow us to be overpowered : it is as if he would 
shake the powers of heaven and earth rather than that 
his promise should not be performed : that he would 
check the course of nature, that he would stop the sun 
in his career, if he were found to bring us into dangers 



346 SERMON XV. 

out of which there was no escape ,* that he would ar- 
rest the profligate current of human affairs ; that he 
would say to the tide of temptations, if it were pouring 
in too boldly upon us, " Thus far shalt thou come, and 
" no further." 

But let us fully understand the meaning and the 
nature of this glorious promise. We may observe 
then, in the first place, it is not a promise of grace 
which excuses us from resisting temptation, but of 
grace, by which we are enabled to overcome it. So 
that while, by the blood of Christ, and by that alone, 
we are saved, and while no human being shall be 
able to say, he has earned salvation unto himself, we 
are ten times, and ten times more bound to wage war 
with the world, the flesh, and the devil, as the un- 
worthy sinners whom Christ has redeemed, than as 
the presumptuous Pharisee, who proudly counts over 
his works and his alms as the price of his salvation. 
For we are endowed with new motives and new 
strength to resist it, which he, " trusting in himself," 
never could experience. In fact, God does every 
thing for us, short of what is inconsistent with his 
own nature, which revolts at all impurity and sin. 
For our sakes, he sends his Son on earth, to a life of 
sorrow and persecution, and to a death of agony and 
shame, in order to redeem us from the punishment of 
sin : he sends his Holy Spirit, to purify us from its 
corruption : he utters prophecy to warn us : he works 
miracles to convince us : every thing, in fact, that is 



SERMON XV. 347 

not incompatible with the fixed principle of his rta- 
ture ; " Without holiness, no man shall see the Lord." 
The second thing to be observed in this promise, 
is the inseparable connexion of divine grace with hu- 
man exertion. He does not say that he will not suf- 
fer us to be overcome, but that " He will not suffer 
"■ us to be tempted above that we are able/' Here 
we see the genuine operation of the grace of God. 
Human exertion without it is hopeless, powerless, in- 
effectual. Dependent upon our own exertion alone, 
we should be tempted above that we are able. On 
the other hand, the grace of God is given in vain, un- 
less we embrace it humbly, unless we hold it fast in 
our hearts, unless we wield it in our hands. It does 
not actually vanquish the temptation ; but it clothes 
us for the battle in the armour of righteousness. 
Therefore, with watching and praying, and with fear 
and trembling, let us await the approach of every 
temptation that we see bearing down upon our souls. 
Inspired by the animating assurance, " That God is 
" faithful, and will not suffer us to be tempted above 
" that we are able ;" and with the awful sense that 
God is on our side, and that we must not dare to de- 
sert his standard when he promises us victory, let us 
advance to fight the good fight of faith. But let us 
march with slow and thoughtful steps, and an humble 
and resigned confidence, to meet the attack of sin and 
death, under the shadow of his holiness, who would 
often have gathered us under his protecting wing, and 



348 SERMON XV. 

we would not. Thus will this poor worm, who once 
crawled along the earth, yielding, with a faint heart 
and trembling conscience, to every sin that assailed 
him, " become more than conqueror through him that 
« loved him." 



APPENDIX. 



It may be a matter of surprise to some readers that Mr. 

W had not exercised his poetical talents upon religious 

subjects : but the fact was, that he seemed to shrink from 
such themes as too lofty for his genius — too pure and too 
awful for what he humbly thought his insufficient powers. 
The standard of excellence which his imagination had raised 
was so high, that no effort of his own could give him satis- 
faction. 

He had sometimes entertained the idea that religious sub- 
jects might be profitably introduced in songs adapted to na- 
tional music, which might thus be made a vehicle of popular 
instruction : how much he felt the delicacy and difficulty of 
such a task, will appear from the judicious observations con- 
tained in a letter to a pious friend who had sent him some 
verses written with that view. 



" MY DEAR 

* " The poems upon which you desire my 
" opinion seem to be the production of a truly spiritual mind 
tt — a mind deeply exercised in experimental religion, which 
" sees every object through a pure and holy medium, and 
u turns every thing it contemplates into devotion. But their 
" very excellence in this respect seems, in the present in- 
" stance, to constitute their leading defect. Their object, if 
** I understand it aright, is to make popular music a channel 
" by which religious feeling may be diffused through society ; 
" and thus, at the same time, to redeem the national music 



350 APPENDIX. 

" from the profaneness and licentiousness to which it has 
" been prostituted. As to the first object : the natural lan- 
" guage of a spiritual man, which would remind one of the 
" like spirit of much of his internal experience, would be not 
" only uninteresting, but absolutely unintelligible to the ge- 
" nerality of mankind. He speaks of hopes and fears, of 
" pleasures and pains, which they could only comprehend by 
" having previously felt them. 

" You remember that it is said of the c new song that was 
" sung before the throne,' that no man could learn that song, 
" save those that were redeemed from the earth : and there- 
" fore it often happens, that those who best understand that 
" music, are more intelligible to heavenly than earthly beings : 
" they are often better understood by angels than by men. 
" The high degree of spirituality which they have attained 
" often renders it not only painful, but impossible, to accom- 
" modate themselves to the ordinary feelings of mankind. 
" They cannot stoop, even though it be to conquer. To the 
" world, their effusions are in an unknown language. In fact, 
u they often take for granted the very work to be done ; they 
" presuppose that communion of feeling and unity of spirit be- 
" tween themselves and the world which it is their primary 
" object to produce ; and when they do not produce this 
" effect, they may even do mischief; for the spontaneous 
" language of a religious mind is, generally speaking, revolt- 
" ing to the great mass of society : they shrink from it as 
" they do from the Bible. 

" Just consider all the caution, the judgment, and the 
" skill, requisite in order to introduce religion profitably into 
a general conversation, and then you may conceive what will 
u be the fate of a song — to which a man has recourse for 
" amusement, and which he expects will appeal to his feel- 
" ings — when he finds it employed on a subject to which he 
*■* has not learnt to attach any idea of pleasure, and which 
" speaks to feelings he never experienced. It is on this ac- 
" count I conceive that a song intended to make religion po- 



APPENDIX. 351 

" pular should not be entirely of a religious cast ; that it 
" should take in as wide a range as any other song, should 
u appeal to every passion and feeling of our nature not in 
" itself sinful, — should employ all the scenery, the imagery, 
u and circumstance of the songs of this world, while religion 
" should be indirectly introduced, or delicately insinuated. 
" I think we shall come to the same conclusion if we consider 
" the reformation of the national music as the primary ob- 
** ject. The predominant feelings excited and expressed by 
" our national airs, however exquisitely delightful, are mani- 
a festly human ; and it is evident that, in order to do them 
" justice, we must follow the prevailing tone. The strain 
" and ground-work of the words can hardly be spiritual ; but 
" a gleam of religion might be every now and then tastefully 
" admitted, with the happiest effect. But indeed it appears 
" so difficult, that in the whole range of poetry there does 
u not occur to me, at present, an instance in which it has 
" been successfully executed. The only piece* which I now 
" recollect as at all exemplifying my meaning is Cowper's 
" c Alexander Selkirk,' beginning ' I am monarch of all I sur- 
" vey,' which I believe has never been set $o music. It is 
" not professedly religious ; nay, the situation, the senti- 
u ments, and the feelings, are such as the commonest reader 
" can at once conceive to be his own. It needs neither a spi- 
" ritual man, nor a poet, nor a man of taste or of education, 
4t to enter into immediate sympathy with him : it is not 
" until the fourth stanza (after he has taken possession of 
" his reader) that he introduces a religious sentiment ; to 
"which, however, he had been gradually ascending; and 
" even then accompanies and recommends it with what may, 
" perhaps, be called the romantic and picturesque of religion, 



* The author probably would have also instanced the 
beautiful Scotch ballad " I 'm wearing awa', Jean," if it had 
occurred to his memory. — Editor. 



352 APPENDIX. 

" 6 the sound of the church-going bell,' &c. He then ap- 
" pears to desert the subject altogether, and only returns to 
" it (as it were) accidentally — but with what beauty and ef- 
u feet ! — in the last four lines. 

u I am really struck with consternation at finding that I 
" have been writing a review rather than giving an opinion, 
" and must not dare to add another word, but to beg you 
" will believe me 

" Yours, &c. 

" C. W." 



It may not be uninteresting to give the following specimens 
of his early poetical powers upon scriptural subjects, which 
he displayed when a school-boy. 

JESUS RAISING LAZARUS. 

Silent and sad, deep gazing on the clay, 

Where Lazarus breathless, cold, and lifeless lay, 

The Saviour stood : he dropp'd a heavenly tear, 

The dew of pity from a soul sincere : 

He heaved a groan ! — though large his cup of woe, 

Yet still for others' grief his sorrows flow ; 

He knew what pains must pierce a sister's heart, 

When death had sped his sharpest, deadliest dart, 

And seized a brother's life. Around they stand, 

Sisters and friends, a weeping, mournful band : — 

His prayer he raises to the blest abode, 

And mercy bears it to the throne of God : 

" Lord ! thou hast always made thy Son thy care, 

" Ne'er has my soul in vain preferr'd its prayer ; 

tC Hear now, O Father ! this thy flock relieve, — 

u Dry thou their tears, and teach them to believe 

" Thy power the sinking wretch from death can save, 

" And burst the iron fetters of the grave : — 



APPENDIX. 353 

" Awake ! arise !" the healing words he spoke, 

And death's deep slumbers in a moment broke : 

Fate hears astonish'd, — trembles at the word, 

And nature yields, o'ercome by nature's Lord. 

Light peeps with glimmering rays into his eyes ; 

With lingering paces misty darkness flies ; 

The pulse slow vibrates through the languid frame, 

The frozen blood renews the vital flame ; 

His body soon its wonted strength regains, 

And life returning rushes to his veins. — 

They look ! they start ! they look ! — 'tis he, 'tis he ! 

They see him, — and yet scarce believe they see ! 

On Him — on Him they turn their thankful eyes, 

From whom such wondrous benefits arise : 

On Him they look, who, God and Man combined, 

Join'd mortal feelings with a heavenly mind : 

On Him their warm collected blessings pour'd ; 

As Man, they loved him — and as God, adored. 



PRIZE POEM. 
ON THE DEATH OF ABEL. 

In youthful dignity and lovely grace, 
With heaven itself reflected on his face, 
In purity and innocence array'd, 
The perfect work of God was Abel made. 
To him the fleecy charge his sire consign'd : 
An angel's figure with an angel's mind, 
In him his father every blessing view'd, 
And thought the joys of Paradise renewed. 
But stern and gloomy was the soul of Cain ; 
A brother's virtue was the source of pain ; 
Malice and hate their secret wounds impart, 
And envy's vulture gnaws upon his heart : 

2a 



354 APPENDIX. 

With discontented hand he turn'd the soil, 

And inly grieving, murmur'd o'er his toil. 

Each with his offering to th' Almighty came, 

Their altars raised, and fed the sacred flame. 

Scarce could the pitying Abel bear to bind 

A lamb, the picture of his Master's mind ; 

Which to the pile with tender hand he drew, 

And wept, as he the bleating victim slew. 

Around, with fond regard the zephyr playM, 

Nor dared disturb th' oblation Abel made. 

The gracious flames accepted, upward flew, 

The Lord received them, — for his heart was true, 

His first-reap'd fruits indignant Cain prepares, — 

But vain his sacrifice and vain his prayers, — 

For all were hollow : God and nature frown'd, 

The wind dispersed them, and the Lord disown'd. 

He looks behind — what flames around him rise ? 

« O hell ! 'tis Abel's, Abel's sacrifice ! 

" Curst, hated sight ! another look would tear 

" My soul with rage, would plunge me in despair ! 

" Still must each wish that Abel breathes be heard ; 

" Still must I see his suit to mine preferr'd ! 

" Still must this darling of creation share 

" His parent's dearest love, his Maker's care ; 

" But Cain is doom'd his sullen hate to vent — 

u Is doom'd his woes in silence to lament : — 

" Why should the sound of Abel sound more dear, 

" More sweet than Cain's unto my father's ear ? 

" Each look, that once on me with pleasure glow'd, 

" Each kiss, each smile, on Abel is bestow'd. 

" He loves me, views me with sincere delight ; 

" Yet, yet I hate him, yet I loathe his sight ! 

u But why detest him ? why do I return 

" Hate for his love, — his warm affection spurn ? 

" Ah ! vain each effort, vain persuasion's art, 

" While rancour's sting is festering in my heart '" 



APPENDIX. 355 

At this ill-fated moment, when his rage 

Nor love could bind, nor reason could assuage, 

Young Abel came ; he mark'd his sullen woe, 

Nor in the brother could discern the foe. 

As down his cheeks the generous sorrow ran, 

He gazed with fondness, and at length began : 

u Why lowers that storm beneath thy clouded eye ? 

44 Why wouldst thou thus thy Abel's presence fly ? 

44 Turn thee, my brother ! view me laid thus low, 

" And smooth the threatening terrors of thy brow. 

u Have I oflfended ? is my fault so great, 

" That, truth and friendship cannot change thy hate ? 

44 Then tell me, Cain, O tell me all thy care ; 

" O cease thy grief, or let thy Abel share !" 

No tears prevail : his passions stronger rise ; 

Increasing fury flashes from his eyes ! 

At once, each fiend around his heartstrings twines, — 

At once, all hell within his soul combines. 

" Ah, serpent !" — At the word he fiercely sprung, 

Caught th' accursed weapon, brandish'd, swung, 

And smote ! the stroke descended on his brow ; 

The suppliant victim sunk beneath the blow : 

The streaming blood distain'd his locks with gore — 

Those beauteous tresses, that were gold before : 

Nor could his lips a deep-drawn sigh restrain, 

Not for himself he sigh'd — he sigh'd for Cain : 

His dying eyes a look of pity cast, 

And beam'd forgiveness, ere they closed their last. 

The murderer view'd him with a vacant stare, — 

Each thought was anguish, and each look despair. 

44 Abel, awake ; arise !" he trembling cried ; 

44 Abel, my brother !" — but no voice replied. 

At every call more madly wild he grew, 

Paler than he, whom late in rage he slew. 

In frightful silence o'er the corse he stood, 

And chain 'd in terror, wonder 'd at the blood. 



356 APPENDIX. 

" Awake ! yet oh ! no voice, no smile, no breath ! 
" O God, support me ! O, should this be death ! 
u O thought most dreadful ! how my blood congeals ! 
" How every vein increasing horror feels ! 
" How faint his visage, and how droops his head ! 
" O God, he 's gone ! — and I have done the deed !" 
Pierced with the thought, the fatal spot he flies, 
And, plunged in darkness, seeks a vain disguise. 
Eve, hapless Eve ! 'twas thine these woes to see, 
To weep thy own, thy children's misery ! 
She, all unconscious, with her husband stray'd 
To meet her sons beneath their favourite shade : 
To them the choicest fruits of all her store, 
Delightful task I a pleasing load she bore. 
While with maternal love she look'd around — 
Lo ! Abel, breathless, weltering on the ground ! 
She shriek'd his name — 'twas all that she could say, 
Then sunk, and lifeless as her Abel lay. 
Not long the trance could all her senses seal, 
She woke too soon returning woe to feel. 

Those lips, that once gave rapture to her breast, 

Now cold in death, the afflicted mother press'd. 

Fix'd in the silent agony of woe, 

The father stood, nor comfort could bestow. 

Weep, wretched father ! hopeless mother, weep ! 

A long, long slumber Abel 's doom'd to sleep ! 

Wrapt in the tangling horrors of the wood, 

The murderer sought to fly himself and God. 

Night closed her welcome shades around his head, 

But angry conscience lash'd him as he fled. 

" Here stretch thy limbs, thou wretch ! O may this blast 

" Bear death, and may this moment be thy last ! 

" May blackest night eternal hold her reign ; 

" And may the sun forget to light the plain ! 

" Ye shades, surround me ! darkness hide my sin ! 

" 'Tis dark without, but darker still within. 



APPENDIX. S57 

" O Abel ! O my brother ! could not all 

" Thy love for me preserve thee from thy fall ! 

u Why did not Heaven avert that deadly blow, 

" That dreadful, hated wound, that laid thee low ! 

" O I'm in hell ! each breath, each blast alarms, 

" And every maddening demon is in arms : « 

" The voice of God, the curse of Heaven I hear ; 

" The name of murder'd Abel strikes my ear, 

" Rolls in thunder, rustles in the trees, 

" And Abel ! Abel ! murmurs in the breeze. 

" Still fancy scares me with his dying groan, 

" And clothes each scene in horrors not its own. 

" Curst be that day, the harbinger of woes, 

u When first my mother felt a mother's throes ; 

" When sweetly smiling on my infant face, 

" She blest the firstling of a future race. 

" O Death ! thou hidden, thou mysterious bane I 

" Can all thy terrors equal living pain ? — 

" Yet still there lies a world beyond the grave, 

w From whence no death, no subterfuge, can save. 

" Thou, God of Vengeance ! these my sufferings see, — 

" To all the God of Mercy, but to me ! 

u O soothe the tortures of my guilty state, — 

" Great is thy vengeance, but thy mercy great. 

" My brother ! thou canst see how deep I grieve ; 

" Look down, thou injured angel, and' forgive ! 

" Far hence a wretched fugitive, I roam, 

" The earth my bed, the wilderness my home. 

" Far hence I stray from these delightful seats, 

" To solitary tracts, and drear retreats. 

u Yet ah ! the very beasts will shun my sight, 

" Will fly my bloody footsteps with affright. 

w No brother they, no faithful friend have slain, — 

a Detested only for that crime is Cain. 

" Had I but lulPd each fury of my soul, 

" Had held each rebel passion in control, 



S5S APPENDIX, 

" To nature and to God had faithful proved, 

" And loved a brother as a brother loved, — 

" Then had I sunk into a grave of rest, 

" And Cain had breathed his last on Abel's breast !" 



The following juvenile exercises (composed amidst the 
hurry of public examinations, and within the short time 
allowed on such occasions) were thought to give fair promise 
of future excellence in Latin versification. Some of the best 
verses which he wrote have been lost ; and he never applied 
himself afterwards to the cultivation of his talents in that way. 

GRJECIA CAPTA FERUM VICTOREM CEPIT. 

Intenta bellis, et rudis artium, 
Victrix juventus ingruit Atticae, 
Sedesque doctrinae dicatas 
Imperio subigit superbo : 
Sed non Camcenas ; hae placido domant, 
Hae saeva cultu pectora molliunt, 
Gratasque Romanum vaganti 
Ingenio injiciunt habenas : 
Victas Athenas en juvenum cohors, 
Victas Athenas Ausonium petit 
Examen ; in campos Pelasgos 
Roma ferox Latiumque fluxit. 
Hinc mutuatur gymnasio forum 
Torrentis asstus eloquii, et gravis 
Demosthenis gustavit acer 
Rhetoricum Cicero fluentum. 
Rapta sonori Maeonidis tuba, 
Dignos magistro dat numeros Maro ; 
Audaxque clangorem strepentem 
Increpat, attonitusque cantat. 



APPENDIX. 359 

Chordam in Latinas iEolicam lyras 
Modumque Flaccus transtulit aureum, et 
Mel dulce libavit, Poetae 
Aonii labiis caducum. 



PRINCIPIIS OBSTA. 

Surge ! nee turpis teneat Voluptas ; 
Arma, quae Virtus dedit, atque Numen, 
Indue, ad pugnam citus ; ecce praesens 

Advenit hostis. 
Advenit dirum Vitium, ille primo 
Praelio tantum superandus hostis ; 
Conseras pugnam, cadat atque summo 

Limine victus. 
Viperae saevam genitura prolem 
Ova conculca ; nisi sic latentes 
Comprimas pestes, breviter tremenda 

Pullulat Hydra. 
Ergo vincendum Vitium juventa est : 
Herculis vivas memor, et tenella 
Strangulet, cunis etiam, ingruentes 

Dextra dracones. 



IRA FUROR BREVIS EST. 

Quare supremum dat gemitum Clytus ? 
Senexque cara miles obit manu ? 
Quis pectus invadit fidele 

Ni Furiis agitatus ipsis ? 
Furore felix ! cui scelus et nefas 
Postquam patrasset non Ratio redit ! 
Non mentis ultoris flagella 
Sentiet, et rabie fruetur. 



360 APPENDIX. 

Ast Ira praeceps — perfidior Furor, 
Mentes ut aegras impulit in scelus, 
Relinquit, accedunt querelae, 

Conscia mens, lachrymaeque inanes. 



MISCELLANEOUS THOUGHTS. 



.. 



It is curious to observe what sources superstition used to 
furnish to imagination, and what civilisation has supplied for 
them. This may be aptly illustrated by the circumstance of 
eclipses. These formerly excited a real and present terror 
in barbarous minds, and gave a wild and violent impulse to 
their imaginations. Civilisation has dried up this fountain 
for the fancy, but has supplied the knowledge of that glorious 
system of the universe, which, though it does not so imperi- 
ously demand consideration, yet, when considered, displays 
a much more magnificent and extensive field for imagina- 
tion, which thus seems to have even gained by its alliance 
with truth. 



Imagination seems almost necessary to truth and reason, 
and often first suggests what reason afterwards proves, and 
afterwards seems necessary (at least with such limited beings 
as we are) to admire its results. 

Truth and reason, when rightly considered, by developing 
the works of the Deity, are, in other words, developing the 
sublime and beautiful, which are also the objects of imagi- 
nation. 



There is a degree of alliance between truth and imagery. 
We look for a degree of probability in the wildest fits of 
fancy; and require, at least, apparent harmony and cohe- 
rence, and a consistency with human nature. 



APPENDIX. 361 

Imagination it is which sustains hope, joy, &c. Shall we 
then part with it in heaven ? It appears to be a partial ex- 
ertion of a more general faculty — a love of the sublime and 
beautiful ; so that this our lovely earthly companion, with 
whom we have wandered over mountain and wild, and by 
whose side we have reposed in glen and valley, — this our 
wayward and romantic guardian may rise when we rise, and 
become glorified with us in heaven. 



Men who accustom themselves to take comprehensive views 
of practical subjects, often forget the application to them- 
selves as individuals, in considering the effect upon the aggre- 
gate of mankind, or upon collective bodies. Thus men, who 
with a view to raise the character, and justly appreciate the 
good effects of Christianity, employ themselves much in con- 
sidering its influence upon society, are sometimes ignorant of 
its doctrines, and uninfluenced by its precepts. One reason 
is, that in considering the aggregate of mankind the indi- 
vidual is kept out of view ; another, that many of the effects 
upon society are merely temporal, and all come short of those 
which it produces upon any one individual upon whom it is 
practically influential ; another, is the pride that naturally 
accompanies the mind which is possessed of those comprehen- 
sive powers. 



It might be at once one of the most certain and the most 
agreeable methods of decomposing and developing the ingre- 
dients of human nature, to take some of those passages of 
undoubted and transcendent excellence which are supplied 
by poetry, oratory, and polite literature in general, and by 
altering one or two of the less prominent words or expressions, 
perhaps a mere particle, into one apparently synonymous, to 
observe the change of feeling produced by change of phrase, 
and pursue it to its source. This would be a species of me- 



362 APPENDIX. 

taphysical analysis, in which, from real though delicate and 
unobtrusive data, we might, by cautious reasoning, arrive at 
abstract principles. For if a change of feeling is produced, if 
we feel a disappointment at any alteration, however slight, 
the pleasure or pain is as real, though not as intense, as the 
most extravagant joy or the most violent agony. Thus we 
should detect many a pleasure (as we often do) only by its 
loss ; and, what is still more important, would be guided, in 
the progress of reasoning, to its principles, and prevented 
from indulging in fanciful and extravagant speculation, by 
having two feelings to compare or contrast — the pleasure 
with its disappointment. This might lead to a knowledge of 
the principles of our nature ; to an acquaintance with the 
delicacy of language and style ; to a radical improvement of 
taste, and to a perception of the more retiring, but, perhaps, 
the more exalted beauties of literature. 



It was the greatest compliment ever passed upon one of the 
greatest statesmen the world ever saw, u that he ruled the 
' ' wilderness of free minds." Shall we then deny to the 
Creator an excellence that we admire in one of his creatures ? 



The question between (I believe) Voltaire and Rousseau, 
" Whether the savage or the civilised state were preferable ?" 
is one of the greatest arguments for the utter depravation of 
our species. The mere naked fact, that such a question had 
arisen among rational beings — Whether they should con- 
tinue in a state allied to the brute, or exert the very faculties 
which constituted them a species ? is enough ; we need go no 
farther. 



APPENDIX. 363 

THE FOLLOWING WERE FOUND AMONGST 
SOME OF HIS JUVENILE PAPERS. 

Successful ambition is like the rainbow which spans the 
sky, and is gazed at, by all who behold it, with admiration : 
it is composed of the rays of the sun, together with the ap- 
proaching rain and the advancing cloud. Alas ! and does 
not ambition span the earth with a momentary grasp, and is 
it not composed of the beams of glory, which are transient, 
and the deluge of ruin and devastation, and the cloud of mis- 
fortunes, which are permanent 1 For the rainbow fades and 
dies away in an instant, and the rays of its glory depart 
with it ; but the rain and cloud existed while it existed, and 
survived when the rainbow and its beams had vanished. 
Thus does the man of ambition derive his glory from causing 
ruin : the ruin is contemporary with the glory, and outlives 
it. His dear beam fades as he sinks into the grave, but he 
bequeaths the storm to his fellow- creatures. 



Irish music often gives us the idea of a mournful retrospect 
upon past gaiety, which cannot help catching a little of the 
spirit of that very gaiety which it is lamenting. 



There appear to be two species of eloquence ; one arising 
from a clear and intense perception of truth, the other from 
a rich and powerful imagination. 

The sentiment comes at once from the lips of the orator, 
with language at the moment of its birth, like Minerva in 
panoply from the brow of Jove. 



The milk of human nature appears under as many different 
modifications in the dispositions of men, as the substance, to 
which it is compared, undergoes in the dairy. In some men 



364 APPENDIX. 

of a perpetual and impregnable good humour it has all the 
oiliness and consistency of butter ; in those of a liberal and 
generous disposition, it has all the richness of cream ; in men 
of a sickly habit of mind, it has all the mawkish insipidity of 
whey ; and in a large portion of the community, it possesses 
all the sourness of buttermilk. 



Solitude and Society may be illustrated by a lake and river. 
In the one, indeed, we can view the heavens more calmly and 
distinctly ; but we can also see our own image more clearly, 
and are in danger of the sin of Narcissus : while, in the river, 
the view both of the heavens and of ourselves is more broken 
and disturbed ; but health and fertility are scattered around. 



■ The imperfect progress of Christianity is only analogous to 
that first state of which it is the restitution — the state of 
Adam in Eden. There Adam was liable to fall; and the 
blessings of Christianity — which is declared to be the resto- 
ration of that state — are of course as much subject to rejection 
as the blessings of paradise : 

u Flowers of Eden that we may cast away." 



Those who cavil at the apparent clashing of the attributes 
of the Deity, and at the control which they appear to exercise 
mutually upon each other, involuntarily fall into a species of 
paganism. They distribute the Deity into so many different 
essences : they, in fact, deify his attributes, and make so 
many independent gods. Whereas, the division of the Deity 
into attributes is only an accommodation to the weakness of 
human faculties. He is the simple, perfect Deity ; of single 
and uncompounded energy ; like the solar ray, appearing 
more pure and simple than its ingredients. 



APPENDIX. 365. 

One difficulty of a preacher is, to balance the terrors and 
comforts of religion ; a difficulty in style rather than in mat- 
ter. Those who speak upon other subjects have generally to 
give the mind a strong impulse in one direction, because 
their object is generally to produce one certain specific act, 
i. e. a vote on a certain side ; but the preacher has to induce 
a habit of acting, to regulate a man's hopes and fears. This 
perhaps is one argument against extemporaneous preaching. 



Shall the word of a physician alter our regimen ? Shall a 
few hundreds added to, or subtracted from our fortune, alter 
our style of living ? — And yet shall a visit from God produce 
no change ? Shall heaven have descended upon earth, and 
earth remain what it was ? Shall the Spirit of God have 
communed with me, and shall my soul return unpurified 
from the conversation ? 



Christ is " God manifest:" He is the Word — God heard 
the Light — God seen : the Life — God felt. 



The difference between our Lord's style of prophecy and 
that of all other prophets is this : He seems to speak with a 
clear steady perception of futurity, as if his eye was just as 
calmly fixed upon future events as if the whole were a present 
occurrence : the prophets appear only to have a picture, or a 
strong delineation of their prominent features, and their 
imaginations became heated and turbid, and agitated and 
confused. 



The story of St. Paul's conversion is told in three different 
ways by the same author ; and when compared, the differences 
appear so natural, from the different situations and circum- 



366 APPENDIX. 

stances in which they are related, that, first, they bear invin- 
cible testimony to the authenticity and genuineness of the 
book itself ; and, secondly, are a standing instance how na- 
tural are the variations between the different Gospels ; and 
prove that, instead of furnishing an objection, they are an 
additional evidence of their truth. The account of the bap- 
tism of Cornelius is told twice, and is another instance of the 
same kind. 



One of the uses of obscurity in the Bible is to excite cu- 
riosity, and to make an exercise for the faculties as well as 
for the affections and dispositions, in order that the whole 
man may be employed in religion ; that there may be a mode 
of religious exercise which may serve both to relieve the ex- 
ercise of mere feeling, and serve as a kind of substratum and 
arena , on which those feelings may find matter, range, and 
variety. 



However the world may affect to despise the genuine 
Christian, it is beyond their power ; they feel too sensibly the 
difficulty of attaining that very state of feeling and disposition 
which is displayed in such a character, to entertain in their 
heart any mean or degrading opinion of the character which 
they apparently undervalue. Every thought which is wrung 
from their conscience by its unwelcome intrusion upon their 
contemplation, rises in judgment against their indifference. 
God has not permitted them to despise a true Christian : 
they may pass him by with a haughty and supercilious cold- 
ness : they may deride him with a taunting and sarcastic 
irony ; but the spirit of the proudest man that ever lived will 
bend before the grandeur of a Christian's humility. You are 
at once awed, and you recoil upon your own conscience when 
you meet with one whose feelings are purified by the Gospel. 



APPENDIX: 367 

The light of a Christian's soul, when it shines into the dark 
den of a worldly heart, startles and alarms the gloomy pas- 
sions that are brooding within. Is this contempt ? No : but 
all the virulence which is excited by the Christian graces can 
be resolved into envy — the feelings of devils when they think 
on the pure happiness of angels : and to complete their con- 
fusion, what is at that moment the feeling in the Christian's 
heart % Pity, most unfeigned pity. 



The ancients either let their passions run wild, or confined 
them like wild beasts in their cages, where they were kept 
muttering in their cells : but Christ has taught them their 
legitimate exercise. 



The question, Whether the passions are to be admitted 
into religion ? divides itself into two : First, Whether the 
passions are unreasonable in themselves ? Secondly, Whe- 
ther they are misplaced in religion ? The first is a piece of 
stoicism, that is too absurd and ridiculous to be maintained. 

The second divides itself also into two : First, Whether 
the affections are misplaced in religion, generally I Secondly, 
Whether our Saviour is the proper object of them ? 

First, generally : it is a great presumption against it, that 
it proposes at once to exclude from religion so grand a part of 
the composition of man. It is to be supposed, that as the or- 
gans of the body, so the original passions of the mind, were 
given for some valuable purposes by the Creator. They are 
now in perpetual rebellion ; and reason alone would presume 
that it would be the effect of revelation completely to repair 
the consequences of this corruption. This indeed had been 
tried by human systems in vain. Epicurus confirmed the 
usurpation of the passions ; the Stoics attempted to extin- 
guish them ; but it is the peculiar office of Christianity to 



368 APPENDIX. 

bring all the faculties of our nature into their due subordina- 
tion ; e that so the whole man, complete in all his functions, 
c may be restored to the true end of his being, and devoted, 
c entire and harmonious, to the service and glory of God.' 



THE END. 



S"* 



.4 



LONDON : 
•RINTED BY SAMUEL BENTLEY, 

Dorset Street, Fleet Street, 



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